Barely Breathing
by chocaholic123
Summary: A tortured professor consumed by a secret. A quiet student who catches his eye. He's barely existing. She's young and innocent. When she enters his hellish world, it shifts…again. AH. Short drabblish chapters from WitFit prompts.
1. Chapter 1 - Upfront

****_Twilight doesn't belong to me. Although I kind of belong to it. _****

**SUMMARY**

**A tortured professor consumed by a secret. A quiet student who catches his eye. He's barely existing. She's young and innocent. When she enters his hellish world, it shifts…again. AH. Short drabblish chapters from WitFit prompts.  
**

* * *

**1\. UPFRONT **

He sucks deeply on his cigarette. The smoke swirls in his mouth, the acrid flavor combining with stale whiskey. Nausea licks at his stomach.

He's been sitting out here all night. The absence of sleep seems less marked when he pretends it's a choice. The moon, previously a bright orb in the night sky, has waned and diminished, until it's little more than a shimmer on the horizon.

He can cope with the loneliness, the desperation, and the fear. It's the guilt that's killing him, clinging on to his skin like a freshly-inked tattoo, shaping his life like a sculptor chisels stone. He can't shake it off, no matter how hard he tries.

He hasn't tried very hard.

The early morning mist descends, wrapping around the house like a lover. He stays up front, letting the damp, musty smell invade his senses. He can taste it on his lips, the way he used to taste _her_.

He can't go on like this, but he cannot stop. His life's an unending carousel of work, alcohol, and intense regret. Lack of sleep adds clarity like a spotlight trained on the truth, and no matter where he looks, he's powerless to escape it.

He extinguishes his final cigarette, glowing red ash scattering across the ground. Pulling his jacket tight around his drawn shoulders, he heads inside to get ready for work.

* * *

**_Hi! This is probably the only a/n I'll write, since the chapters are short. It's kind of weird to have a/ns that are longer than the story. Sparrownotes24 owns this story as much as I do-we started it together last year, and then I picked it up again a few weeks ago. I plan to post as often as I can. Midnight Cougar kindly picked up all my mistakes. _**


	2. Chapter 2 - Upbeat

**2\. UPBEAT**

The campus is just starting to wake up. Students and faculty members scurry in all directions: to offices and libraries, to coffee shops and lecture rooms. Some wear clothes bearing all the marks of last night's activities, though the satisfied expressions on their faces tell no tales of shame.

Edward notices none of this. Grief has lent him a tunnel vision. He sees what he needs, to get through the day; no more, no less. It's his inner thoughts that distract him.

His office is a mess. The tiny cubicle's strewn with books; some open, some scrawled upon. Half-empty coffee cups become havens for mold—their green-white crust resembles a forgotten experiment. The cleaner avoids him since she closed a book by accident and suffered a diatribe that made her cry.

He hasn't even noticed.

Later, after a morning of frantic reading, looking for answers where there're none, he walks to the lecture rooms, carrying a case full of notes and a heart full of misery. His jaw itches where he forgot to shave it today, and he scratches it with bitten-down fingernails, surprised at the length of his beard.

Maybe he's forgotten for more than one day.

Because each one merges into the next.

_Time heals all wounds_, his father tells him.

_Give it time_, his mother counsels.

But time does nothing but stretch on forever, dragging him along whether he likes it or not. A year may have passed but nothing has changed. Not for him, anyway.

When he enters the lecture theater, a few students are already there. One of them is playing music through his phone—some kind of upbeat, inane, pop song that forms a soundtrack for a summer. As soon as they spot him they turn it off and stop talking, their murmurs fading to nothing in the silence. He has this effect on people, enjoys it maybe. He wears a taciturn persona like a fighter wears war paint. To ward off people, to keep them as far away as possible.

It works.

He loads up his laptop, opens up the presentation, hearing rather than seeing the theater fill up. Classics is always a popular subject, especially for freshmen. It's history with teeth, literature that bites.

Sometimes it doesn't let go.

When he turns, it's as if everything goes into slow motion. Each breath takes years, each blink a millennia. Because there, in the front row, is his own, personal monster.

Terrifying in her beauty. Soul-wrenching in her familiarity.

He turns to stone.


	3. Chapter 3 - Wallow

**3\. WALLOW**

"Maggie." The name of his dead wife escapes his lips. It doesn't surprise him. She clings to his every breath; her memory enveloping his thoughts like a gift-wrapped present. Every red he sees is the reflection of her hair in the midday sun, every white the pale, alabaster of her skin.

He isn't wallowing. He already drowned. He is the walking dead.

The girl doesn't notice his stare. She's talking with a fellow student, a corner of her cherry-red lips quirked up in a smile. She shakes her long, wavy hair over her shoulder and laughs.

Edward has to grip his lectern with long fingers and bleached white knuckles. The insistent beating of his heart surprises him; he'd long since believed it had shriveled and died.

The screen behind him flickers, the first slide of his lecture slowly focusing into view. The low hum of chatter dissipates into nothing, the young, fresh faces of his students turning to regard him as one. They gaze expectantly, waiting for him to speak.

He does not.

He can't tear his eyes away from the radiant girl. His quick mind sorts through various scenarios: Can he ask her to stay behind after class? What if she disappears before they can speak? Does she know the way her features are arranged on her face tortures his very soul?

His carefully ordered life is crumbling at the edges. He even begins to wonder if Maggie has come back to haunt him, to make him atone for his sins.

Somebody clears their throat in the front row. He tries to shake her memory from his mind, concentrating on the meticulously scribbled notes in front of him. He opens his mouth and begins to speak, every word addressed at the wide-eyed freshman with the auburn hair.


	4. Chapter 4 - Carton

**4\. CARTON **

An automaton. That's what he is. It's a lecture he's given many times before, accompanied by slides that once lit fire in his belly and sang songs to his heart. Death stole away his appreciation of loveliness at the same time it stole away his wife. He could feel its hard, bony fingers wrapped around his very soul. Squeezing the goodness out of him.

He taps his pocket absentmindedly. A half-full carton of Marlboros bulge through the fabric, the one thing keeping him half-sane. Maggie would chide him about the habit; tell him he was cutting his life short. What a deliciously cruel irony it was that she was the one to die early. He laughs; a short bitter cough that causes his students' eyes to sweep toward him.

It doesn't matter; he can't see anything but _her_. She crosses her legs, bare ankle swinging back and forth like a metronome. It mesmerises him, draws his attention until he can look nowhere else. Her bones are delicate, elegant. He wants to wrap his fingers around them until she gasps. He imagines crushing them between his hands, he imagines looping them around his neck. Would she whimper if he touched her, those big eyes getting bigger as she searched him for answers? He wants to punish her for looking so pretty, so vital, so alive. It's like a personal affront.

When she turns to talk to the boy sitting beside her, fury explodes in his veins. Frantically, he searches through his mind, trying to find a way to stop the vignette that's playing out before him. Her soft laugh, the boy's crinkled smile, the way she reaches out and jabs him with the blunt end of her pencil.

_Enough_.

"You." He turns his dark eyes on her, anger blurring his vision. "Remain seated after class. Everybody else is dismissed."


	5. Chapter 5 - Pitter-Patter

**5\. PITTER-PATTER**

Laughter dies in her throat; her mirth replaced by an anxiety that squeezes at her chest. She looks up at the professor, instantly recoiling at his expression. The pitter-patter of her healthy heart speeds up to a noisy gallop. Still he stares at her; his face twisted with something that looks frighteningly like hate.

It pins her to the chair.

She watches as the others file out, chatting animatedly, ponytails swinging, and legs swaggering. Mike whispers something about meeting her at the café, but she can't hear him. Only the thunder of her rushing blood.

Three weeks she's been here at college. This is her first classics lesson; the opportunity to attend only falling into her lap when another student withdrew. The course is always overbooked—Professor Cullen's brilliance is only matched by his recently infamous temper.

Her legs start to tremble when she realizes they're alone.

Just the two of them.

He walks toward her, eyes narrow, lips tight, and it takes everything she has not to collapse in on herself. By the time he stops in front of her, hand resting on his hip, she's finding it difficult to breathe.

"Your name?"

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. Her lips move like a cartoon fish. It makes her want to slap herself in the face.

"What's your name?" He says it again, each word enunciated, as if she's inept.

She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to picture her happy place. "Bella. Bella Swan."


	6. Chapter 6 - Caffeine

**6\. CAFFEINE**

A sudden image enters her head, half-obscured by the notched-wood memory of a door, and her childhood fear. Phil approaching her mom, his face red, neck veins bulging. He never shouted—that wasn't his way. But his too-calm voice cut through her mom like a knife. They would cower behind the door. Crying, begging.

_"Be good,"_ she would whisper. _"Be good and he won't get angry." _

That was a lifetime ago. Phil died when Bella was ten and her mom has since remarried. An honorable man who would rather cut out his own heart than hurt a woman. A sober, church-going gent whose biggest indulgence is caffeine. But still, the lessons of her childhood fear remain, running like a mantra through her mind.

_Be good and he won't get angry_.

"Miss Swan." The professor says it pointedly, his voice hoarse and low.

Somehow, she finds the strength to open her eyes, the sudden light making her blink hard. When she looks at him, his expression makes her tremble. Dark eyes rimmed with red. Sallow skin, pulled tight over sculpted bones, shadowed by the growth of a neglected beard. Full lips, scratched and dry, cracks running furrows through the red flesh. He doesn't look like her professor any more. Not here, up so close and personal. He doesn't look quite human, either. There's an almost unbearable beauty to his dissipation, like an old carving that bears the scars of its history. He's Dorian Gray in negative.

When he speaks again, it comes as a shock. Not so much what he says but how he says it. He curls his fingers around her wrist, bone digging into bone, and pulls his dry lip up into a snarl. With a voice thick with venom he asks her the question:

"Why are you here?"


	7. Chapter 7 - Credit

**7\. CREDIT**

He watches with fascination as a single tear rolls from the outside corner of her eye, weaving a curling trail down the side of her face. He wants to swallow it, to taste it, to flick out his tongue like a lizard and swipe it from her face. But he wouldn't be able to stop at that. A single drop of salt water could never be enough. He wants to devour her, to swallow her whole, and rid the world of one tiny piece of goodness. Because the world doesn't deserve it. Deserve her.

Christ…is this what it's come to? Shouting at innocent freshmen solely to see them cry? He rubs his face with the heel of his hands, looking for answers in the stars appearing before pressed eyes, but all he can find is the darkness.

"Thank you, Miss Swan. You can go." Then, in a voice so quiet he can barely hear it himself, he adds, "I'm sorry."

Maybe in some celestial ledger this will be put in the credit column. He let Bella Swan leave without breaking her. Christ, does he want to break her? Even as she stands up, her hands shaking as she tries to gather her papers, he can smell her fear. He craves it. Craves her.

But something holds him back. He doesn't kid himself that it's some small shred of humanity, left festering in the hollow blankness of his soul. Doesn't consider it may be the result of the debt he owes to Maggie—God rest her damned fucking soul. No, he lets her go because as much as he wants to destroy her, he knows he can't. Even the Devil knows the light always outtrumps the darkness. She will destroy _him_ if she ever gets close enough to touch.

He should avoid her.

Save himself while he can.

But he won't.


	8. Chapter 8 - Code

**8\. CODE**

Breathe, she tells herself. Inhale...hold...exhale. It's like a code for her to follow. But it's no good, her chest muscles refuse to move, her lungs remaining stubbornly deflated. Still she runs, not the controlled cadence of a jogger, or the graceful elegance of a long-distance athlete, but the flailing run of a child. She runs as though she's being chased, as if she has no choice. She runs because she _has_ to.

By the time she reaches the dorms she can barely function. Falling to her knees on the green in front of the old, brownstone building, she clutches her chest, mouth opening to take in the gasps of air she needs to survive. People walk around her, studiously avoiding the bizarre freshman on the grass, side-eyeing her as they pass by. Still she wheezes, gulping air like it's water, working hard to regain control of her body.

She's frightened. By him…of course. The way he stared at her, the malevolent twist of his mouth when he asked her name. Yet there's more to her reaction than that. Even when she's being good, she's been in trouble. But she's never reacted this way.

Scared, shocked. More than a little intrigued. Like a dog with a gash she wants to gnaw at it. Reopen the wound to taste its freshness. She can't get him out of her mind.

"Bella?" A voice calls from the steps leading up to the dorm building. Mike Newton stands there, staring at her as if she's some kind of crazy. He walks down the steps, striding swiftly across the grass until he reaches her, dropping to his knees so their faces are level. "Bella, are you okay?"

She's known Mike for two weeks. He was the first person to greet her when she carried her case up the stairs to her dorm, her legs trembling with nerves as she walked. She trusts him as much as she trusts anyone around here, which is not a whole goddamned lot. Still, he seems sweet and friendly with his mask of concern.

"I'm fine," she lies. Decision made. Whatever took place in that lecture room isn't for sharing. Not yet, while she still doesn't know what really happened herself. "I just winded myself running, it's stupid, really. I should probably join a gym or something."

Mike smiles and helps her up, his hand gripping her as he pulls gently. He takes her at face value, accepting her explanation, starting to talk about a keg party on Friday night.

She simply nods and lets him, because she doesn't know what else she can do.


	9. Chapter 9 - Diffuse

**9\. DIFFUSE**

There was a time when Fridays brought a smile to his face. They meant good food and warm, red wine that mellowed the sharpest of moods. Through the diffuse vision of his inebriated eyes he would stare at Maggie, taking in her pretty, bow lips and pale, white skin, wondering how he got so lucky.

That was all _before_. The honeymoon period, a time for showing only the good, for pretending to be somebody you weren't. They ate each other's lies along with the blue-veined cheese. Drank down falsehoods like the finest vintage.

Now, he only knows it's a Friday because of his students. Like rats in a cage they act differently, they fidget and chat, pass notes and make gestures. They look happy. Excited.

It makes no difference to him. He stays in his office until late, studying texts, ignoring cleaners, swallowing thick, strong coffee as if it's the elixir of life. Always delaying _that_ moment he has to go home, trying to find an excuse to avoid it. Because _she_ might be dead, but her memory lingers on. Clinging to the roses she planted outside their cherry-red door, another lie to appease the neighbors, a way to mask the disorder within. Nonetheless, he gathers up his books, sliding them in his bag alongside the cellphone flashing with too many unread messages.

On campus, the air buzzes with the possibilities of youth. Students run past, hair flying out behind them, laughter cutting through the breeze. Try as he might he cannot escape them. They surround him like a swarm of bees, barely noticing his disdain, ignoring the way he flinches when their arms brush his. All heading for the same side of campus, where the faculty parking lot abuts the sports stadium—the Mecca for this crowd of traveling pilgrims.

When he climbs into his car, it's like the eye of the storm. Calm, yet strangely alive. Thoughts of Bella Swan merge with memories of his wife, stretching his sanity until the membrane is thin. One tug away from breaking.

Escaping one maelstrom for another, he drives to his house—the place he used to call home—ready to confront the demons that remain inside.


	10. Chapter 10 - Rocking Chair

**10\. ROCKING CHAIR**

Smile. Painted on with a cheap Target lip gloss. Clothes. Skinny jeans and a black, off-the-shoulder top. Bought by her mom in a back-to-school frenzy before she left for college. Afterward, Renee had cried, saying her baby was all grown up, begging Bella not to leave. Held her tight in a gin-soaked embrace, asking for forgiveness in one breath, accusing in the next. That was Renee; a curious mixture of sweet and bitter. A rocking chair lined with nails.

Bella swallows down her memories with the warm keg beer, the red plastic Solo cup crackling in her hands. In the corner, some jocks play beer pong. She leans on the wall, watching them curiously. There's an atmosphere of forced jollity in the air, a determination to submit to the joy of youth, no matter the cost. People flit from group to group, trying to find their social status, working out where they belong. Forced conversations between scientists and dance majors, hoping for the next big prospect. She looks around the room, wondering where she fits.

Wondering _if_ she fits.

She really wants to fit in somewhere.

Later, after the beer has worked its magic, they're all sitting outside, enjoying the last of the summer evening. Somebody has brought out their iPod. Bass pumps through the yard, its rhythm merging with the thumping of her heart.

"I've been looking for you." Mike Newton drops down next to her, not waiting for an invitation that would probably never come. Not that she's upset he's here—quite the opposite. She's pleased to see him, delighted, in fact. He offers her a sip of his beer. She smiles before she takes it; the cup pressed against her lips. When she pulls it away it's replaced by Mike's mouth, soft and warm against her own. He kisses her gently, his tongue tentative against the crease of her bottom lip, then bolder as she breathes against him. The drink topples over, beer fizzing into the grass, but neither of them notice. When he cups the back of her head she closes her eyes, trying to submit to the moment.

She feels nothing at all.


	11. Chapter 11 - Ribbons

**11\. RIBBONS**

He's going mad. The last ribbons of sanity are slowly unfurling before his eyes, black as her hair, brittle as her smile. He wakes in the middle of the night and can sense Maggie's presence in the gloomy half-light. Her accusations still taint the very air he breathes, poisoning it like a chemical weapon. He wants her to go, he wants her to stay, he wants, he wants...

On Sunday, he visits his parents. He's learned that avoiding them has awkward consequences: tearful phone calls, embarrassing visits, sympathy in their eyes that make him want to gouge them out. So, he pretends, tells wholesome tales about his therapy, mentions friends who have long since given up. His lies give them peace but cause him to squirm under their scrutiny. He's forever digging a hole from which he will never resurface.

"We're thinking of a cruise for Thanksgiving," his mother tells him. He nods quickly; unsure whether it's an invite or information. "Just a few days, to get away. I can't stand the thought of another holiday here."

Of course she can't, none of them can. Maggie's death was a targeted missile. Aimed at causing the most devastation in a small area. She succeeded beyond her wildest dreams.

"Alice is coming, aren't you?"

He looks up into his sister's eyes. Piercing blue, like a cloudless day. They tell him she knows, she can see right through him. To the blackness that lies beneath.

"Yes, that's right."

"What about you, Edward? Will you join us?" His mother leans forward almost eagerly. He thinks of stormy seas and shipwrecked vessels…and nearly agrees. But the thought of five solid days with his family makes him shiver.

"I've agreed to spend it with a colleague." He rarely speaks when here; his voice causes them to jump. He avoids looking at Alice, choosing his easily-fooled mother instead. She beams widely at his revelation.

"That's wonderful." It's as if he's told her he's won the lottery. She positively vibrates with excitement. "Do I know them?"

He shakes his head and mumbles, staring down at his plate. "Nobody you know." It's a lie and he knows it. Alice knows it too; he can tell from her sigh. He's never been a good liar, not good enough, anyway.

If he'd been good enough maybe everything would've been different.

Maybe Maggie wouldn't be dead.


	12. Chapter 12 - Lamb

**12\. LAMB**

She loves Sunday mornings the most. The cafeteria is half-empty. Even those who pay for the meal plan tend to avoid weekend breakfasts, preferring sleep to sustenance. But Bella gets in line at precisely nine o'clock, tray in hand, eyes glued to the coffee machine. She's always been an early riser.

Carrying her full tray to an empty table, she sits with her back to the wall, taking a long, much-needed sip of coffee. That's when she sees him. Blond hair freshly washed, wearing a neat, button up shirt and chinos. He's dressed for Sunday. She wonders what that says about him. Looking down at her own attire she feels underdressed. Still, she waves back when Mike spots her, smiles when he asks to join her, and tries not to show how awkward she feels. When he walked her back to her dorm the night before they'd both been merry and intoxicated. She tries not to think about that kiss.

"Are you going to church?" she asks. His brows pull down in confusion. She blushes, realizing she has it all wrong. Mike hasn't dressed up for a reason. These are his normal clothes. There's something so wholesome about him, so easygoing. Falling in love with him would be so easy. Like a lamb to the slaughter.

Some girls dream of white knights, of happy ever afters, and love conquering all. As he smiles at her, cheeks dimpling, hair shining, she wonders if she could, too.

"I'm not really a churchgoer." He says it as if it's a dark confession. "Do you go? I could walk you there?"

He's eager, like a child seeking out affection, and his good humor rubs off on her. "Do I look like I'm dressed for church?"

Mike doesn't miss a beat. "You look beautiful."

She bites her lip and tries not to stare at his. She can picture it all. A few sweet dates, some heated kissing, then a drunken fumble on her twin bed. Falling into a relationship without ever having to make a conscious decision to do so. Just as her mom did with Phil, with Garrett, and countless other men whose names she'd learned over the breakfast table.

The second bests, the settled-for. Men who filled a need Bella never could. She had always been the third wheel, even as a child.

"Thanks." What else is there to say? She abandons her half-eaten pastry, appetite gone.

"Are you enjoying college?"

For a moment she thinks of Professor Cullen. She has no idea why he pops into her head at such a strange and awkward time. But now he has she can't shake him off, or the nausea clinging to her gut. A distraction, that's what she needs. Something to take her mind off the way he stared at her, eyes narrow and fierce, lips twisted in something resembling hate.

From darkness to light she looks at Mike and tries to smile. "I think so."


	13. Chapter 13 - Glaring

**13\. GLARING **

When they walk into the lecture hall together it's as if a balled fist hits him in the gut. Edward wants to double over, to groan out loud, to spit up blood or bile or whatever the fuck it is that's making him hurt so much. He doesn't understand it one bit. He's used to the iron blanket of misery that insulates him from other feelings.

The bastard is holding her hand.

He can't drag his eyes away. Their fingers are intertwined, a democratic, non-dominant hold, neither one of them submitting to the other. If Edward held her hand he'd envelope it in his own, shield it from the world. Protect her.

_What. The. Fuck?_

Once, shortly after he and Maggie started dating, Edward had seen her flirting with a guy from work. The anger he'd felt then was nothing compared to his white-hot fury now.

The room fills up and he switches on the projector, slams his notes down on the table, clears his throat loudly. But still he can't stop glaring. Flinching when Mike brushes Bella's hair off her shoulder.

He thinks he sees her cringe, too. Wishful thinking, maybe.

This girl with his wife's face is smiling politely, twirling her pen between her fingers, leaning forward to hear what the asshole is saying. Then, she looks up, right into Edward's all-pervading eyes. Her smile melts away like ice on a hot day.

She doesn't stop looking, though. He stares right back, watching the way her lips fall open, how her chest rises up and down as her breathing intensifies. She pulls her hand out of Mike's grasp.

Edward feels as if he's just won a great battle. Though he's not sure what this means for the war.

His response surprises her as much as it does him. Edward doesn't take a moment to remember the last time he used those muscles, or to consider the folly of singling her out.

He simply smiles.

Her chest hitches, then she smiles back. Tentative and shy, it pretty much kills him. So different from Maggie's smile, the way she would curl her lips as if they held a dark secret. Cherry red and tempting as hell. No, Bella's smile is like the rest of her: straightforward and open, no pretenses. He doesn't even know how he knows this; it's just there in his mind.

Though it feels like hours, some seconds pass by, enough for students to get restless, for conversations to spark, for the projector fan to kick in. He wonders who will give in and tear their eyes away first.

Because he's not ready for it to end.

He's not sure he ever will be.


	14. Chapter 14 - Fool

**14\. FOOL**

"Why's he looking at you like that?" Mike whispers in her ear. He shuffles in his seat, flinging an arm across the back of hers in an act of possession.

She leans away, not wanting him to touch her. Not wanting the professor to see. Still she stares at _him_. Like a fly caught in a sticky web, like the fool she is.

"Like what?"

She pulls her eyes away from the intense man leaning on the lectern, and it feels as if something's crushing her chest. Her breath comes out in little stuttered gasps, her heart racing. Just from one smile. One dangerously beautiful smile. Like snow on a summer's day or a flower growing in the desert, it was so out of place yet so perfect.

When Bella glances up, he's started to speak, his eyes on his notes. She barely hears a word, can't focus on the slides, can only stare down at her blank notepaper, thoughts swimming, slithering like eels in her mind.

She doesn't know what it is about him that affects her so much, but her response to him is visceral, almost painful. She wants to talk to him again, to linger behind after class. If only he'd ask her to, or demand it even.

**_Want to do something tonight_****_?_** Mike passes her the paper, and she looks down, brows creasing as she reads. Again she sees a flash of the future, soft touches and hard kisses, meeting parents, flying somewhere warm for spring break. It's all mapped out like a fashion advert. Toothy grins and All-American tans.

But she burns at the first sight of the sun.

**_I have to be somewhere_****_._** She scribbles furiously, then passes it back. It isn't a lie. Everybody has to be somewhere.

Maybe she's crazy, but sitting here in this lecture room she can't think of anything but that man up front. The way he talks, the way he stares, the way his lips curled in a secret smile solely meant for her.

Though there's a part of her that wants the fairytale, the white knight riding in to scoop her onto his trusty steed, the darkness spreads its bony fingers and beckons her. Seeps into her skin, curling around her chest like smoke from a bonfire.

When he looks at her again, she doesn't flinch, doesn't turn away. Doesn't miss the flash of interest that lights up his eyes.

It's too delicious to ignore.


	15. Chapter 15 - Inglorious

**15\. INGLORIOUS**

_Somewhere_ turns out to be the Foster Library on the other side of campus, tucked in among tall oak trees, nestled in a forest of green. She climbs the steps, hair billowing out around her, arms clutching books she has to return. From behind she looks like any other student: dark hair, jeans, green hooded sweatshirt and battered leather satchel carelessly flung over her shoulder.

But she isn't any other student.

Not to him.

In his clouded mind she is his own Scheherazade. Spinning tales that keep her alive. They keep him alive, too. Breathing's no longer a chore but a result of her existence.

He sits on a bench and lights a cigarette, crossing his legs as he stares at the building. It's enough to know she's in there somewhere. He doesn't need to go inside. That's the kind of thing a stalker would do.

His phone rings and he sets it to silent, ignoring the insistent vibration as his sister's face appears on the screen. Even in still life she seems to be judging him. Eyes narrow, mouth drawn.

She's persistent, too. Three times she rings and three times he ignores. He knows he'll pay for it later.

But now...all he can think about is _her_. _Them_. Bella and Maggie, Maggie and Bella. The one who broke him and the one he wants to break. The one he wants to touch, to talk to, to covet. The one who haunts his thoughts. If he dreamed she'd haunt those, too.

He really wants to dream.

He sits for two hours, while the sun slips her anchor and slides down the sky, trailing salmon and orange behind her. The air grows too cool for his thin jacket, but he barely notices, the heat of his obsession warming him from within. He stays until he becomes a glowing red circle in the night; eyes still trained on the door in an inglorious vigil.

When she emerges from the library it's as if his heart remembers how to beat, making up for lost time by speeding in his chest. The light floods her from behind, a full-body halo outlines her form, then she slips away from it, clambering down the stairs, pulling her hoodie tight. When she reaches the bottom, she turns left, heading for her dorm.

Edward stubs out his cigarette, stands up, and follows her.


	16. Chapter 16 - Accurate

**16\. ACCURATE**

After Maggie died, it was as if he was a child again. Relearning simple, everyday things—forcing himself to eat, to speak, to put one foot in front of another—making himself live. They were all new to him.

Right now, though, he's never felt more alive. Never wanted anything more than he wants to follow this girl. The need to be close to her makes every cell in his body fizz and pop like freshly opened champagne.

She doesn't know he's behind her, tracking her every step. Not yet. He keeps a safe distance, as she turns corners, dropping into shadows when she looks back. A little high from chain-smoking so many cigarettes, he feels invincible.

The feeling lasts for at least five seconds.

His eyes are still trained ahead. Watching as she turns in slow motion, brown hair bouncing on her shoulders, neck twisting, eyes wide as she spots him in her periphery. He freezes.

Beautiful. Dangerous.

A siren. Half-woman, half-bird. Singing songs that make him forget…everything.  
A temptation from his own personal hell. Dragged up to remind him that redemption is never going to be his. He cannot atone for his sins. They're too big, too black.

His heart drops as he watches her turn away, walk toward her dorm building, figure becoming small in the distance. He panics, a bleached-white emotion that clouds his judgment, propels him far away from what is right.

"Bella!" The word escapes before he even thinks it. Like a child emancipating itself from a parent. He can almost see it dancing in the air, shaking its head at him.

She stops. Turns. Shoulders hunched, face guarded. "Professor Cullen?"

That expression. A strange mixture of fear and...something he can't place. It lingers in the back of his mind, a distant memory, a nagging reminiscence he can't quite grasp.

"I need to ask you something." He's babbling now. Desperately trying to find words to make her stay. He wants to talk to her, stop her from leaving.

Her brow pulls down into a frown. "Yes?"

"What are you doing tomorrow?"

"I have a lecture at nine."

Of course she does. Tomorrow is Friday.

"After that?"

Her eyes widen. He sees that emotion again. That indiscernible one. He wants to capture it in his hands like a delicate flame, shield it from the wind.

"Umm...nothing, really. I have some laundry to do."

"I need your help." Bella doesn't know how accurate his statement is. How wrong it is, either. He wants to gather her up, to push her away.

"Okay…" An expression flits across her face. Disappears almost as soon as it arrives. Eyes wide with surprise, mouth half-open.

"Meet me in my office. Tomorrow at twelve." A terse command, but said with a gentle voice. Half-afraid he'll scare her away, half-afraid he won't.

She chews her lip like it's a piece of licorice. No response. Just doe-eyed innocence. He turns, leaving her standing there, not wanting her to know how much she affects him. It only takes two steps before he places her expression, memories of Maggie cutting through him like a sharp dagger.

It wasn't fear that widened Bella's eyes, made her breath catch in her throat.

It was desire.


	17. Chapter 17 - Parking Lot

**17\. PARKING LOT**

A single car stands in the far corner of the parking lot, elegant in its solitude. The roof and hood are covered with a layer of leaves; pinks and oranges blending into silvery metal. The smoke inside makes the windows seem opaque. It licks at the glass, diffuses through the cracks, disappearing as it meets the cool, night air. Edward lights another cigarette, phone pressed to his ear, eyes closed as he hears his sister's voice.

"...we thought we'd head over tomorrow at noon. I've ordered some flowers and Mom's bringing a wreath."

"I'm not going." He makes an 'o' with his lips, smoke rings rising into the air. "I have to work."

"Not tomorrow, Edward. Surely you're taking the day off."

"I have lectures, meetings, students. I don't have the time."

There's a pause. He imagines Alice pulling at her hair, big handfuls of black twisted in her fingers. It used to be the same color as his, but she's dyed it for years. Another way to differentiate them, as if there isn't enough. Being a twin has always felt like a punishment to Alice.

"What will people say if you don't show up, Edward? Maggie's family will be there, her friends. If her husband isn't there..." She lowers her voice. "People will talk."

"Let them." Let them trash his name, curse his existence. Let them rail against him for all the evils of the world. There's nothing, nobody, that could drag him to that grave tomorrow.

"You're so selfish. You don't think about what we're all going through, what we'll have to face. You won't see Mom's expression when she hears people talking about you."

"Goodbye, Alice."

He finishes his cigarette; stubs it out, grinding it until the red glow disappears. Rubs his chin, soft bristles tickling his palm. His body is stiff with frustration, like it often is when he talks to his sister. She's always been outspoken, even when they were children, but when it came to Maggie she could never keep her mouth shut. She was like the third person in their marriage, constantly sticking her nose in. Despite being his sister, she stood up for Maggie.

In life, as in death.

Turning the key, he starts up the engine, rolling down the windows to allow the smoke to escape. He takes one last look at the campus behind him, where buildings sleep and students dance. Then he drives away, but his thoughts remain with Bella Swan and her pale-as-winter skin.

The girl with Maggie's face.


	18. Chapter 18 - Seam

**18\. SEAM**

There're times when light breaks through the cloud of his depression. The occasional day when existence doesn't seem like a life sentence. But these moments are fleeting. Impossible to hold on to, they slip away like feathers on a breeze.

She haunts him. That much he knows. Some days he can smell her perfume in the air, the fragrance a reminder of her absence. Then he finds a crumpled letter stuffed down the sofa, a silk scarf rolled up at the bottom of his closet. They rip the seams of his sanity, his madness escaping like vapor into the air.

When Bella walks into his office, it's as if time has gone backward, it takes him a moment to catch his breath. But then he notices the differences: the softness of her eyes, the trepidation in her steps. Maggie never held herself back from anything. She ate up life like a starving animal.

"You came." His voice is thick.

"I said I would."

Beautiful, so beautiful. Her bottom lip trembles when she speaks. He wants to touch it so much it hurts him deep within his tarnished soul.

"That's good. I need your help." He's had all night to think up a task. Something to keep her here. An endeavor rather than a simple job. "I'll pay, of course."

Her expression belies her interest. She licks her dry lips, drops her head to the side. Her brown eyes never leave his face.

"These books." He gestures at the piles behind him. "I need you to go through them, read the notes in the pages. Copy them out. Then I want you to burn every last one."

He's just sane enough to realize how crazy he sounds.

She looks at the scattered texts and frowns. "But why?"

"It's my wife's research. The story of Jason and Medea. Have you heard of it?"

Her eyes are full of questions. "I...I think so. The 'Golden Fleece', is that right?"

The urge to take hold of her grips him. He wants to see if she feels like Maggie, if she smells like her. Is the resemblance only skin-deep? "That's correct. Most people have heard of the 'Golden Fleece', Hollywood has seen to that. Jason and Medea's relationship is less celebrated on celluloid." He picks up one of the texts. Even in despair he's a natural teacher. "My wife was more interested in the portrayal of Medea. That was the basis of her research."

"Was?" Bella reaches out, curling her hand around the book, millimeters from his own. "She can't finish it?"

He shakes his head, and allows his fingers to brush against hers. They feel soft, warm, alive.

"My wife committed suicide last year."


	19. Chapter 19 - Crumpled

**19\. CRUMPLED**

It takes all her strength to stop herself from flinching. The combination of his touch and the meaning of his words seem to freeze her to the bone.

What can she say he hasn't already heard? She suffers the embarrassment of those surrounding the bereaved, the knowledge no words are enough. Her heart softens as she looks at him. "I'm sorry."

He brushes off her kindness. "Two hours a day, five days a week. There are books at my home, too. I'll need you to go through those." He pauses, scratching at his cheek. The skin there is livid beneath his brown-red beard. "I can pay you six hundred a month."

"Dollars?" Bella doesn't wait for him to answer, sensing the inanity of her question. "Yes, I can do that." She's not sure why she accepts right away. Perhaps it's the offer of money when she has so little, or maybe the intense sympathy she feels for this man who has lost everything. Any fear she has is replaced by a softer, more emotional response.

But more than one person has been ravaged by a puppy they thought was sweet. Sharp teeth can hide behind the most genuine of smiles.

"You need to put your hair up. I don't want you molting all over my books." His lips harden. "And you're not to speak to anyone here about this work. If they ask, simply tell them you're my assistant."

She steps back as if she's about to be slapped. Why does she feel as if she's being chastised? "I'm sorry..."

He's already turned away. Opening the top drawer of his old, oak desk, he pulls out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. His hands shake, making the packet rattle. "You can choose your own hours, but I need you here every day. If you can't make it, you'll need to call me. Can you do that?"

"Of course, Professor. I'm hardly ever sick."

"Good. Well, if you're free now you can make a start. Clear yourself a space on the table."

Before she can answer, he leaves, closing the door behind him. She stands there, alone, in his mess of an office, surrounded by old books and ancient memories. There's something not right about it. Not only the room, although that seems oppressive enough, but the offer, the job, the man. She feels as if she's stepping into a life that's not her own, wearing shoes that don't quite fit. A part of her wants to run out, and race down the stairs, leaving this strange, tortured world behind her.

Abandon him to his misery.

There's a moment when one has the choice between darkness and light. She stands at the intersection, one foot on each road, her heart hammering in her chest. She thinks of Mike Newton and Sunday breakfasts, of tortured professors and dirty offices…the taste in her mouth turns sour.

Clearing the table of coffee cups and debris, Bella makes the only choice she can.

She sits down and gets to work.


	20. Chapter 20 - Habit

**20**. **HABIT**

Bella has a habit of tapping a pen against her teeth when she's thinking. When she's writing notes, she often catches the corner of her bottom lip between her eye teeth. Over the course of the week he's noticed these habits, come to anticipate them. Everything about her is fascinating to him.

Edward studies her like a scientist would an experiment. Catalogues her movements in his brain. He lives for the moments when she looks up and glances at him; her cheeks stained with the flush of embarrassment. Despite her physical resemblance to Maggie, he's learning inside she's a different fish altogether. Calmer, softer around the edges, gentle when speaking.

"Professor Cullen?"

"Yes?" He tries to prolong the word. He's noticed his normal, clipped responses make her flinch. For some reason that disturbs him.

"Would you like a coffee?"

"Yes, I would." He stands, offers her his cup. When she takes it he tries not to breathe too deeply, tries not to catch hold of her wrist. "Thank you."

A small smile and she's gone. He watches the door swing shut behind her, until all that's left is her fragrance and his heartbeat. As requested, she has her hair tied back—something Maggie never did—it allows him to breathe a little easier, soothes his soul.

He's been smoking less, too. A cigarette every few hours; never when she's here. The rush of her presence is as good as a nicotine high. As he walks over to her table, leaning over to read the manuscript she's working on, he can't help but close his eyes, take a deep breath in, and hold it.

Her perfume lingers in the air like a subconscious gift. Honeysuckle sweet. He allows himself to inhale it again, savor the taste, imagine the smell lingering throughout his mausoleum of a house. So different to Maggie's overpowering scent, the musky perfume that seemed to cling to everything she touched. So strong he can still smell it sometimes, a year after she last sprayed it in their bedroom.

For a moment he imagines what it would be like to have Bella in his house. Would she cleanse it like an avenging spirit, or would it dye her soul as black as his? Then he sees Maggie's writing, flamboyant and looped.

His stomach turns over at the words.

_Of all creatures that can feel and think, we women are the worst treated things alive._


	21. Chapter 21 - Catastrophe

**21\. CATASTROPHE**

The staff kitchen is a tiny closet of a room, squeezed between the final office and the outside wall like an afterthought. The once-white linoleum is now gray, peeling at the corners to reveal a darker, stained lining. Dirty mugs lay festering in the sink, pools of long-forgotten drinks discoloring the once-sparkling steel with dark brown patches. If you squint, they look like blood stains.

Bella doesn't squint.

Instead, she washes every abandoned cup, drying them well, and orderly places each one back in the cupboard. Then she wipes down the counters until they're clear of sugar grains and coffee granules, rinsing the cloth out thoroughly.

After the disorder of Professor Cullen's office, this room's a haven. No scattered textbooks, no balled up paper. No memories of a long-dead wife.

Because _she_ haunts that office. Her words loop across the pages of every text book, black swirls telling stories of a vibrant personality. Even in death she seems larger than life. Bella wonders how much of it Professor Cullen has read. His wife didn't only annotate; there're jokes in the margins, little exclamations, and big judgments. It's as if she's telling them something, but Bella has no idea what she's trying to convey.

Two coffees. One the color of warm oak, white steam rising from the rim. The other black as coal. She cleans the teaspoon, picks up the mugs, then turns to walk out.

A blond man blocks her way, making her jump. Scalding liquid splashes across her hand and chest. She screams from the shock as much as the pain, shaking as she puts the mugs back on the counter.

The man hasn't moved. He stands there, staring, his eyes wide, face pale. For a moment he looks as though he's going to faint. She tries to speak, but the throbbing pain of her hand takes away all her words. She cradles her wrist, leaning over to run it under cool, soothing water.

It's some moments before he speaks. Even then his voice holds a vibrato, dipping and rising through every word. "I'm so sorry...Christ...I didn't mean..."

He has the look of a man who's seen a ghost.

"It's okay; I shouldn't have filled the mugs so high. Just a little scald, that's all. It isn't a catastrophe." Bella pulls her hand from the stream of cold water and shows him the small patch of red. "I think you were more shocked than me."

"You're not wrong there." He starts to laugh. "For a minute I thought you were somebody else." He takes her hand, checking her burn. "Mother of God, you look just like her."

Bella frowns. "Like who?"

His answer is drowned by approaching footsteps.


	22. Chapter 22 - Spiral

**22**. **SPIRAL**

Maggie killed herself on a bright, fall day. He'll forever associate that time with the heady aroma of overripe apples. When they carried out her body, the air was full of it, insects flying erratically as if they were drunk on the fragrance. When they slid Maggie into the hearse, she wore a blanket of black flies. They had to swat them away before driving off.

One year, two weeks, six days and twenty-one hours ago, his life changed forever. Turned into a corkscrew of despair. The spiral he can't climb out of.

Then _she_ walked in and everything flipped upside down. The same lips, the same nose, even her eye color is a perfect match. Yet, he sees a beauty that he hasn't before. He wants to hide it, to protect it. To stop it morphing into something grotesque.

Maybe that's why he runs as soon as he hears her scream. His breath comes in pants—more from worry than exertion—as he barges his way out the door and speeds up the corridor. Try as he might, he can't forget the one time he was needed but was too late.

Had Maggie expected him to be too late?

"Edward?" Jasper stares at him, confused. "Are you okay?"

He can't help but notice Jasper's holding her hand.

"I heard a scream." There's an edge to Edward's voice. Anxiety, he thinks. He looks at the way Bella's holding Jasper's hand. Memories of faculty parties climb up from the hell pits of his mind. Laughing, always laughing...and taunting. Maggie would flirt with his colleagues, hold their hands, derisive eyes sliding to his...making sure he was watching.

He was always watching.

"That was me." Bella pulls her hand away, tucking it behind her back. It warms him inside. "I managed to spill coffee on myself."

"Are you hurt?" _Please don't let her be hurt_.

"I'm fine. There's no need for all this fuss." She looks more than embarrassed. He likes the way she seems to shun the limelight. "I was just telling..."

"Jasper. Jasper Whitlock. Pleased to meet you." Professor Whitlock smiles at Bella, and Edward watches him intently. They've known each other for years. Fought about texts, argued about theories. Even invited each other over for dinner. Jasper's wife, a pretty brunette named Maria, makes the best enchiladas this side of Mexico. "I can't believe how much she looks like—"

"You can go, Bella," Edward quickly interrupts him. "You're hurt. Go home, take some painkillers, and rest your hand. We can start work again tomorrow."

"But tomorrow's Saturday."

_Damn_. "Are you busy?"

She shakes her head. "Just a little homework."

"Good. There're some books I want to show you at my house. I'll call you with directions." Edward wants her gone. Before Jasper says something. Terrified she'll find out the truth. He wants to protect their little cocoon from the world.

He can't bear to lose it.

"Okay." She's perceptive enough to see his words as a dismissal. "Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Professor Whitlock."

"Likewise, Miss..."

"Swan." It's Edward who says it first. Desperate to cut any interaction before it begins. Jasper raises his eyebrows but says nothing. They've all learned to dance around Edward this past year.

The two of them stand and watch her walk away, her red-brown ponytail swinging from side to side.

It mesmerizes Edward.

It confounds Jasper.


	23. Chapter 23 - Grudge

**23**. **GRUDGE**

The house stands tall inside the overgrown garden. Surrounded by apple trees that need lopping and rose bushes whose spindly branches are weighed down by dead flowers. Brown and paper-like, they seem to mourn the loss of their mistress as much as any sentient being. Weeds push up through the untended soil, laying claim to the space they've been denied for so long. They seem to delight in their freedom. Standing proud and ugly.

Then there's the house itself. Rising up from the grounds, it seems as organic as the plants. As if it has grown from a seed, bloomed and flourished. It looms ominously above her, watching her with a suspicious eye.

There's something not right about it.

Though the walls meet in right angles, they seem to bulge and wane, as if the house is breathing, waiting. It feels as though it holds a grudge. For what, Bella doesn't know. She has to take a deep breath before she can knock on the door.

The air tastes of rotting apples. Thick and cloying, the sweetness is overpowering. They litter the ground, melt into it. She wonders why nobody has cleared them up.

She almost didn't come. Tossed and turned all night, waking terrified, afraid, exhilarated. Breakfast was a cup of coffee and a cold slap of reality as she realized she had no way of getting to his house. No car of her own, no friends to confide in or ask for a drive. She felt crushed at the thought of not seeing him. Not enough to call him or send a message that she was stuck, though. She was too shy to ask him for help, to pick her up.

Yet, she got here. A bus ride followed by a dusty, sweaty walk. Fine grains of dirt stick to her skin, peppering her cheeks like a smattering of freckles. When she wipes them, they leave streaks on her face.

She knocks again, this time afraid he isn't here. Not sure she could take the disappointment.

"You came." He wrenches open the door. "I wasn't sure you would."

He seems different, almost boyish, and it takes her a moment to work out the change. Then she realizes he's shaved off his beard. His skin is pale, soft, though a little sunken where it's pulled across his high cheek bones. The urge to touch him makes her fingers tingle.

"I wasn't sure I would, either." She's breathless, though not from the long walk.

"I'm glad you did." He smiles tentatively, as though he's trying out something new. "Come in. I've put on some coffee." He steps back to let her in. "How's your hand?"

"It's fine." She follows him down the hallway. Though there're no pictures on the walls, she can't shake off the feeling somebody's staring down at her. Tries to write it off as a flight of fancy. "It was only a splash, it barely hurt at all."

The kitchen's better. Lighter, less oppressive. The large windows look out on the backyard. Like the front, it's neglected. The overgrown, hay-like grass sways softly in the breeze. There're doors leading out onto a terrace, tiled with paving stones, cracks lined with weeds. A solitary chair is pulled up close to the house, the ground around it scattered with cigarette butts. There's something unbearably lonely about it all.

About him.

He hands her a mug of coffee, unfurling his fingers carefully, as if he's afraid she'll be scalded again. "I forgot to ask you how you take it. I'm a little out of practice."

His unexpected confession touches her. "It's perfect, I prefer it dark."

"So do I." Another smile as cautious as the last. She returns it shyly. He walks toward the kitchen door. "Shall we drink it in the garden? It seems a shame to be cooped up on a lovely day like this."

She agrees readily. The overgrown yard is preferable to the oppressive quality of the house. They walk out together, the warm air enveloping them like the cosiest of blankets. Settling her in the Adirondack, he pulls another chair over, placing it next to hers. They sit, sipping coffee. Cotton candy clouds move across the pale blue sky.

For the first time in a long while she feels almost happy.

When she turns to look at him, though, he's staring straight at her.

Then she doesn't know how to feel.

* * *

**Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, messages and pimps. Every single one of you makes my day. For those of you expecting an Edward/Jasper chapter, never fear. It will happen soon. Have a great weekend! Choc xo**


	24. Chapter 24 - Calm

**24\. CALM**

Beautiful. Even with smears of dirt across her unmade up face, all he can see is the light shining out of her. She's radiant. It touches him in a way nothing has for the longest time. He watches as she looks up at the sky, soft lips slightly parted, the tiniest of smiles dancing at the corners.

He can barely see the resemblance now. Where Maggie was all artifice: painted lips, fake smile, calculated words, Bella is nature: pure, real, wholesome. Over the past weeks he has studied Bella as he would a fine piece of literature— analyzed her moves, tried to read into her words. She is kind. Good.

Too good for him. That much is crystal clear. He'd pollute her like a chemical spill. It would be the most selfish of actions for him to do anything about his feelings. He'd drag her from the light, pull her under, into his darkness. It isn't a world he wants to share.

Not with her.

"It's beautiful out here. So calm and peaceful." Bella sips at her coffee, steam rising from the surface. "Do you spend a lot of time in the garden?"

He doesn't answer at first. Stares into the copse of trees at the edge of the yard, watches leaves drifting down to the already-covered ground. Every now and then the silence is disturbed by the thump of another falling apple.

How to tell her why he spends most of his time out here? Even with the taste of apples laced in the air he finds it easier to breathe. Maggie hated being outside. Despised nature and her unchecked beauty. Loathed even more the freckles that covered her face at the slightest hint of sun. She was an indoor creature to the bone.

"I like the fresh air." Each time he smiles it seems easier. "How about you?"

An expression crosses her face that he can't quite place. He wants to smooth it away with his fingers. Calm her skin until it's merely a memory.

"Very much." She mumbles her response into her coffee cup. "I've finished my drink. I guess I should get to work."

The final mouthful of coffee turns to dust in his mouth. None of this is real. She's like a beacon flashing in the stormy night, a brief respite, not a rescue. He shouldn't expect her to save him anyway, this nineteen-year-old freshman with the understanding eyes.

He's beyond redemption.

She deserves better.

It doesn't stop him from craving her, though.


	25. Chapter 25 - Theft

**25\. THEFT**

On Sunday morning Bella's woken by the shrill ringtone of her phone. Pulled from dreams she's not quite ready to let go of, she blinks rapidly, stuck in the no man's land between wakefulness and sleeping.

"Mom?" She squints at the clock beside her bed. Six forty-five. Renee has never been an early riser.

"Baby, how are you? I miss you."

One of _those_ conversations. Night time hasn't ended for Renee. Her words are thickened by alcohol. Bella sits up in bed, rubbing her eyes with a closed fist. "It's very early, Mom. Are you okay?"

"I know!" A shrill laugh. "I want to talk Thanksgiving. I thought it would be fun if we came to visit you. Garrett has some business up there. We could check into a hotel and spend a few days with you."

Thanksgiving. She hadn't even thought about it. But now she does, her mom's suggestion warms her heart. Even with the extra money she's earning, the flight back home is out of her reach. "That sounds nice."

"Doesn't it? You can show me your dorm; introduce me to your friends. Do you have a boyfriend yet? I bet you do. I remember when I was at college, a different guy every week..."

Bella drops back on her bed, only half listening. She wants to go back to sleep, to dream the day away. Remember the hours she's spent with Edward. The way he looks at her when he thinks she's not watching. Eyes dry yet unblinking, skin creased in the space between them, as if he's trying to solve a problem he can't work out. Last night when he dropped her home, they'd sat silently in his car, staring at each other for a long, chest-crushing moment. In her imagination, he reached out, traced a line along her cheekbone with his cool, long finger, then leaned forward and pressed his dry lips against her own. It had been so vivid, this vision, that she was shocked to see him still sitting there, stagnant as a statue, fingers clutching the leather of his steering wheel, his face nowhere near her own.

She wants to chase away the demons that stole the light from his eyes. The cruelest of thefts. She isn't scared of him like she used to be. At least not _as_ scared. Other unnamed feelings dilute that emotion, combining with each other to make something new.

With the veil of naïveté that only the young can wear, she sees him as romantic, tortured.

When her mom ends the call with a soft "chat soon, baby," and hangs up, Bella curls back into a ball, pulls the covers over her head, and spends the whole day thinking about him.

Thinking about Edward.


	26. Chapter 26 - Mark

**26\. MARK**

Jasper finally corners him on Monday morning. He's wily, choosing a moment when the corridor's full of passing staff, when a raised voice would be a red flag waved in front of their curious faces. Pulling the door closed behind him, he steps inside Edward's office, fingers still curled around the dull, brass handle.

"Jasper." Edward doesn't look up from his work. He scribbles unintelligible words across a mediocre term paper. "This isn't a good time."

"There hasn't been a good time for a while. But I need to talk with you anyway."

Edward scrawls a 'C+' across the white expanse. Types the mark into his laptop. His movements are slow, deliberate. He swallows, but there's nothing except dryness in his throat. "What is it?"

When he looks up, Jasper's still standing by the door. Edward gets the sense neither of them want to have this conversation. The preamble is uncomfortable enough.

"I...ah...God." A loud whistle of a breath escapes from between Jasper's teeth. "How are you doing, man? You seem a little better. I don't know..."

Awkward conversations. By now, Edward should be used to these—badly-phrased sympathy, eyes never meeting, always something more interesting to stare at than him. There're a thousand different ways to say you're sorry. He feels as though he's heard every single one.

"I'm fine."

"Who's the girl?"

"What girl?"

"The one I saw on Friday. Is she a relative of...?"

Another thing Edward notices. Nobody wants to say _her_ name. It's as if by avoiding it they might bring her back to life.

Say it three times and she's gone forever.

"Of who?" He's not going to make it easy.

"Maggie." Jasper's voice is constricted. Strangled. "She looks just like Maggie."

Silence. It's uncomfortable, thick, saturated with unasked questions. Dull murmurs wax and wane from the corridor outside. A door slams somewhere nearby.

Jasper finds the words to continue. "Didn't you notice? I know she's younger and all. But Jesus, the resemblance is uncanny."

"Did I notice if my student looked like my long-dead wife?" Edward pauses for a moment. Jasper's cheeks flush a bright red. "I suppose there're some similarities, but if I saw Maggie in every freshman who walked through the door you'd think I was mad." He keeps his tone even. Nonchalant. As if none of this is a big deal. "And no, she's not a relative."

"Why was she in here with you?"

"She's my student; she asked for help. What do you propose I do? Tell her I can't talk to her because she looks like Maggie? Suggest she drops my subject because her straight, little nose makes me uncomfortable?" His voice takes on an edge of sarcasm.

"I don't know. It doesn't seem right you should have to look at her. Be reminded of your terrible loss every day. I could talk with somebody; have your student reassigned."

"No." Edward's answer's immediate. Almost violent in enunciation. The thought of not seeing her is almost painful. He knows it's wrong; this feeling that pulls at him whenever she's near. The obsessive way he thinks about her all the time. If he could sleep, he knows he'd dream about her, too.

But not because she reminds him of Maggie.

He's falling for Bella in spite of the resemblance. Not because of it.


	27. Chapter 27 - Physical

**27\. PHYSICAL**

There're changes in his behavior only the most avid observer would notice. He snaps a little less, smiles a little more. Breathes a little easier every day.

When Bella asks him questions, she notices his patience has improved. His explanations are gentle, tolerant. She finds herself hanging on his every word.

Physically, there are improvements, too. The blue-black shadows beneath his eyes have paled to a lighter gray, the red capillaries in his eyes less noticeable. When he smiles—still a rare, yet wonderful occurrence—he makes Bella's heart flutter like a bird in a cage, leaving her breathless and aching for more.

However, there're still moments when his face turns dark and she feels him withdraw. She wonders if he's remembering his wife—the woman whose death has made him little more than a wraith. That's when jealousy scratches at her stomach like an angry cat.

"There are so many different accounts of Medea," Bella notes, looking up from yet another contradictory text. "I can't work out whether she was an amazing feminist or a heartless murderer."

Edward winces, laying down his pen on his desk. He swallows. She watches as his Adam's apple bobs up and down beneath the thin skin of his throat. "Can't she be both?" His voice is dry, raspy. "Myths have a tendency to demonize or sanctify. The truth is usually somewhere in between."

He holds her gaze for a moment too long. Steals the breath from her lungs. She searches her cotton-wool brain for a suitable reply.

None is forthcoming.

Instead, it's Edward who continues their conversation. "It's Thanksgiving next week. Are you traveling home?"

She's surprised by his question. He so rarely asks them. "No, my mother and her husband are coming here. He has business in the city." She allows herself to smile. It's nice to have an answer to questions like these. "How about you?"

"I'll be working."

"Here?"

"No, the faculty is closed for the long weekend. I'll be working at home."

Something inside her twists when she pictures him sitting alone in that graveyard of a house. "Surely you have family?"

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips. "They're going away. It's just me."

Though nothing in his expression hints at loneliness, she feels it keenly on his behalf. If she were braver, she'd invite him to spend the day with her, Renee, and Garrett. But the thought of him meeting her mother sends awkward shivers down her spine. Renee's brashness and Edward's reserve would make the most embarrassing of encounters.

"Maybe I can come in on Wednesday?" she offers. "My mom doesn't arrive until Thanksgiving morning." For some reason, the thought of five days away from him is painful. Theirs isn't the type of friendship where they would phone or text each other simply to say hi.

"It's okay. You concentrate on your family. Do whatever it is young people do nowadays. Take selfies, post on Instagram. Tweet."

Just like that he digs a gulf between them. Makes her youth seem like an expanse which can't be bridged. Embarrassed, she looks down at her work, pretends to be entranced by the words.

But even there she can't escape him. Not when she's reading the erratic musings of his poor, dead wife.


	28. Chapter 28 - Heart Part One

**28\. HEART PART ONE**

Thanksgiving arrives, bringing a misty rain and ice-cold wind. It whistles around the empty house like a playful child, dashing here and there. Never in the same place twice.

As soon as Edward wakes, the house feels oppressive. Pushing down on him until his skin feels stretched and bruised. The air's thick with her memory, pungent with the cloying odor of her perfume.

Buzzing with her unspoken accusations.

He tries not to remember their final confrontation. The bitter words, the taunts, the lies. But even in death Maggie won't let him escape. She still lives and breathes through the air holes of the bricks.

On a whim, he decides to shave properly; with a blade rather than a cursory pass with his electric razor. He does it on rote: fills the sink with hot, steamy water, lathers his face with gel, picks up the blade, lifts it to his jaw. The stubble slices off, revealing soft, pale skin, and a jawline that's almost too sharp in its definition. His cheeks feel tender, raw, prompting him to open the bathroom drawer to find some soothing balm.

What he finds almost cuts him in two.

A photograph. White on black. Black on white. A visual representation of everything he's lost. The flimsy paper crumples in his fist at the same time white hot pain sears his chest. It implodes like a collapsing star, burning hot, burning cold. Disappearing into darkness.

He falls to the floor. Can't breathe, can't think. Tears scald his cheeks for the first time in a year. A low moan escapes his lips, desperate, longing. The pain's too big to be contained—it just grows and grows, pushing at his chest, deflating his lungs. Though he squeezes his eyes shut, the hot wetness still escapes them. Tears trail down his face, stinging his freshly exposed skin.

He's so lost. Has been for months. All his emotions have been buried beneath his anger, muted, silent for too long. His body aches and throbs, a painful reminder of all he's lost.

She's gone. Took his heart with her. If she'd ripped it from his chest with her bare hands, he's sure it wouldn't have hurt any more than this. His punishment has been swift, severe. Maggie took the one thing that may have meant something. She smashed it into tiny pieces. Killed all hope with one slash of a wrist—let it bleed out onto the bathroom floor.

That's where he stays. In a cold, tiled room, on a chilled, hard floor, in a house that has no sympathy. Curled into a ball, like a child trying to hide from the monsters.

He cries. He mourns. He stares...at that photograph. He's taking that first, lonely step toward forgiveness.


	29. Chapter 29 - Heart Part Two

**A second update today. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

**29\. HEART PART 2 **

A heart can break in a thousand different ways. For some it shatters into tiny pieces, for others it simply stops beating. Bella's heart has been breaking for years, pulled apart piece by tiny piece, each disappointment ripping off another chunk. Missed recitals, forgotten birthdays and lonely half-meals have all added up to a lifetime of neglect; a child who's learned she's always the last priority.

She waits for three hours on Thanksgiving morning. Wearing a pretty, yellow dress she bought with her hard-earned wages, her hair tied back into a neat ponytail. Perched at the end of her bed, she has her cell phone clutched in her sweaty palm, waiting for a message that doesn't come.

The dorms are silent, save for her ragged breathing. Everybody has left for their own celebrations. Still she waits, she hopes, making up excuses in her mind; tall tales of missed turns, forgotten suitcases.

As time passes, her thoughts turn darker. She imagines broken glass, twisted metal, cars pushed inside each other, overturned. Her mom dying was always Bella's biggest childhood fear, the ghostly monster growling under her bed. Now it climbs out from underneath the mattress, taunting her with shocking images of broken necks and lacerated faces.

Renee finally calls at lunchtime. When her name flashes on the screen, Bella feels a strange combination of relief and anger. It brings tears to her eyes, scratches her throat.

"Hello?"

"Baby, happy Thanksgiving!" There's not even a pin drop of regret in Renee's voice. "There's been a change of plan, we're in Vegas. Garrett gave me the trip as an early birthday present. It was a complete surprise. You should see this hotel, sweetheart, the casino's huge. We played blackjack all night; only lost a hundred dollars." She stops talking long enough to take a breath, but Bella can't find her voice enough to fill in the silence. Can't think what she would say. All her accusations, regrets are buried under the pain. The rejection makes the ache in her chest almost too much to bear.

A heart can withstand many things. But the repeated neglect of a careless parent is all it takes to break Bella. She drops the phone, curls into a ball, keening, wailing until she has nothing left to give, nothing left to expel.

She's never felt more alone.


	30. Chapter 30 - Butter

**30\. BUTTER**

It's been the longest Thanksgiving. By late afternoon it feels as if the walls are closing in on her. Smothering and dank, her room seems more like a prison than a refuge. The silence in the halls only reinforces how alone she is.

How lonely.

A walk. Fresh air. Though she escapes her room, her troubles accompany her. Bella wanders for hours, her coat buttoned securely, her hands chapped red from the bitterest of weather. The streets are empty, though the lit-up houses are painful reminders of everything she doesn't possess. She imagines hot roasts, warm friends, families huddled around the football game, butter popcorn spilled on plush carpets. Maybe a dog or two to hoover it up. It's like picturing a country she's never visited.

As the sky darkens, so does her heart. What's left of it. She can't stand the thought of her empty dorm room, sparsely furnished, lacking in comfort. Even when her stomach rumbles—empty save for the cereal she ate that morning—it isn't enough to turn her back. It's as though her feet know the way even if her mind doesn't.

She turns the corner, coming face to face with the old, brick house with the neglected garden. No lights shine in the porch. The windows are dark, unshuttered; the lack of life behind them only adds to her misery.

Alone. Again. She doesn't even know why she came here. Maybe the thought of somebody else spending Thanksgiving on their own was the only thing keeping her sane. As she walks up the desolate path, she knows it's hopeless.

He isn't here.

Any strength she has seems to vanish; disappears like her spirit. She collapses on the stairs leading up to the porch, covering her face with her hands. Hot tears spill onto her fingers, cooling on her skin, mixing with the freezing air that makes her shiver and shake. Even bundled into a ball she is frozen, chilled to the bone. Her sobs are accompanied by the timpani of her chattering teeth.

Maybe that's why she doesn't notice when the door creaks open. Doesn't see the man standing above her, his own heartbreak a mirror of hers. Doesn't hear the sound of his breath as he bends down and reverently lifts her into his arms, cradling her body as he carries her into the warmth of his house.

She feels him, though, everywhere.

And when he presses his lips softly against her wet cheeks, she thinks she might just survive the night.


	31. Chapter 31 - Scramble

**31\. SCRAMBLE**

Once, when he was a child, Edward found an injured bird laying half-dead on the ledge of his window, its tiny body shivering in pain and fright. Fascinated, he'd carried it inside in cupped hands, laid it in a padded box, and fed it tiny drops of sugar water. For weeks he nursed it back to health, watching as it grew in strength, its small wings fluttering as it tried to escape.

Carrying Bella Swan's frozen, shivering body into his hallway, he's reminded of that time, long ago. Though he doesn't know the reason for her heartbreaking sobs, the urge to take care of her the way he did that bird sweeps over him.

For the first time in over a year, Edward's able to think of somebody other than himself. Bella's misery hits him like a wrecking ball, replacing his own, desperate sorrow. Memories of Maggie disappear from his mind like smoke in the open air. He's consumed by this damaged girl in his arms.

Desperate to warm her ice-cold skin, he carries her to his room, placing her gently beneath the covers. He tries to move away, intending to run her a hot, steamy bath, but her thin arms cling to his neck, refusing to let him go.

He tries to stand up, but she scrambles to her knees. Buries her face against his throat. Unlike the rest of her, her breath's warm, tantalizing. It's been so long since he's had human contact. He reflexively sucks in a deep breath, smelling the faint tang of her shampoo. His eyes close as he lets her overwhelm his senses—her touch, her scent, the sound of her soft cries making him tremble.

He wants her. Wants it all. He's not sure who's saving whom here, but he wants to be the one to try. Because she's everything: the hottest sun the palest moon, the brightest light, the inky darkness. His night and his day.

She finally unburies her head from his neck, staring up at him through wet, red-rimmed eyes. All he can see is her innocent beauty.

When she presses her soft, trembling lips against his, her fingers cupping his smooth cheeks as though he's something breakable, all he can _feel _is his need.

Hers and his.

She pulls him closer.

He lets himself be pulled.

Because he needs to be the one to mend her broken wings.


	32. Chapter 32 - Artificial

**32\. ARTIFICIAL**

Mouths. Moving softly, gently. Breathing each other in as though they have no other choice. The tip of his tongue slides slowly against hers, the sensation causing a rumble of desire in the depths of her stomach. His hair's soft, thick, and curls between the tips of her fingers as she pushes her hands into it. When she arches her back, pressing her chest to his, she can taste his sighs.

The ice-cold of her skin is boiled away by passion. Memories of her sadness suffused by desire. His hands slide down to the small of her back, under the bulk of her jacket, his palms pressing into her soft flesh. There's nothing artificial about her response.

Everything's him. Her past, her future, it's all consumed by the here and now. She's no longer the forgotten child, always outside, forever looking in.

She's his.

Perhaps she always has been.

Her eyes are closed tight. A kaleidoscope of color dances behind them each time he kisses her. Painting their passion with bold strokes of violet and pink. She sucks at his bottom lip, pushing her teeth into the plump flesh. His moan vibrates against her mouth.

She falls back onto the mattress, her dark hair fanning across the ivory pillows, her head sinking into the feathery softness. He covers her body with his own. Fingers digging into her hips, he grinds his mouth against hers. Without thinking, she wraps her legs around his waist, rocking against him, feeling him grow in response to the friction. He drags his hands up her sides, first spanning her waist, then grazing her ribcage, until he reaches her chest. His thumbs press into the swell of her breast, until her nipples harden in response to the pressure.

A low, raspy moan escapes her lips. He kisses it away, pushing her sweater up her body, the itchy wool replaced by cool air and warmth of his skin as he presses it against her. Then they're both naked from the waist up. She holds on to his back, feeling the bumps of his spine, the sinewy muscles that flex as he hovers above her. There's a darkness to his eyes, a desperate twist to his lips. She closes her eyes again, unable to take the unbearable beauty of his passion.

His desperation seems laced by frustration, manifesting itself in harsh touches, painful kisses. When he tugs down her jeans, there's no softness to his movements. Just speed, impatience; the primal need which consumes them both. The desire to feel, to be felt, to have skin on skin, to lose themselves in each other, so they might be found again.

Though the silence is broken by their sighs and moans, neither one of them speak to the other. She can't think of words to communicate what she needs to say. So she tells him with fingers that tug, hips that undulate, lips that consume, begging him never to stop.

Drowning. She's pulled under by their desperate movements. Left breathless by her overwhelming desire. Her toes curl, heart speeds, everything inside her tightens. Time freezes for one long, stretched-out moment.

Then the storm breaks. Her body arches up from the mattress, supported by his strong hands. He swallows her cries as though they're sustenance, then feeds her back his own. His muscles harden, contract. His breath turns ragged. He spills inside her, burying his face in the crook of her neck. Still she holds him tight, afraid to let go, scared of what might happen next.

He buries his face deeper, his breath muffled by her neck. It takes her a moment to realize it isn't his sweat moistening her skin, but tears.

Edward isn't sighing.

He's crying.


	33. Chapter 33 - Empire

**33\. EMPIRE**

It wasn't her first time. That honor belongs to Riley Biers, her senior prom date. It wasn't the second time, either. But it's the first time she's woken up alone; her body curled into a protective ball, nausea stabbing at her gut like a thousand tiny blades.

There's no sign of him in the room. No dip in the mattress, no lingering cologne, no warmth on the empty sheets. The only evidence he was ever with her, the dull ache between her thighs.

She shouldn't have come. That much is evident. She had no place turning up unannounced at his door. No right to break down in his arms.

Bella wears the blame for their encounter like a crown of thorns, wounding her, making her bleed.

She pulls on her jeans, dragging her sweater over her head. Pads on bare feet out of the room, searching for light, sound, some evidence he exists. When she reaches the kitchen, the doors are open. She sees the red circle of his cigarette, the shadowed outline of his form. He's sitting in the yard, long legs crossed in front of him. A tumbler held loosely in his hand.

For a moment, she's reminded of Nero fiddling while Rome burned. A once-great empire crumbling in front of his eyes. Edward stares blankly into the night.

Bella feels that pull, the need to be near him. To comfort, to reassure. To seek solace in return.

The grass is wet as she crosses it, the soles of her feet pressing down onto the cold blades.

He stares at her through haunted eyes. His skin has taken on the gray pallor of the night.

She kneels at his feet, lowering her head until it's resting on his legs. She's shocked when he reaches out to caress her cheek.

"I'm sorry." His voice is low. Torn. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"It's all right." She's not sure who she's saying it to. Herself or him.

"It isn't. I should never have done that. I'm your teacher for Christ's sake. I didn't mean to hurt you."

This time she looks him right in the eye. "You didn't hurt me. I wanted it...I wanted you. I still want you."

"I've nothing to give."

"I didn't ask you for anything." A tear rolls down her cheek. "I'm not a kid, Edward." It's the first time she's said his name. To his face, at least. "I'm alone. You're alone. I just want to feel...something."

There's understanding in his eyes when she says it. He runs his fingers through her hair. "If anybody finds out you could be thrown out of college. I'll lose my job."

"They won't find out. I'm not going to tell anyone."

He groans, pulling her up until she's sitting in his lap. He buries his face in her hair, breathing in deeply. "We can't do this."

"Yes, we can."

"We shouldn't."

"I know. But I want to be with you. Let me be with you until Sunday. After that I'll leave and we won't talk of it again."

He stares at her, eyes narrow, glistening, hands cradling her face. When he leans forward, pressing his lips against hers, it feels like a promise, a capitulation. A victory.

It almost feels like hope.


	34. Chapter 34 - Ruthless

**34**. **RUTHLESS**

He makes her a mug of coffee, then rustles around the cupboards to find her a suitable breakfast, painfully aware of how empty they are—hardly a morsel to be found. He rarely cooks, hardly shops, either. For the past year he's regressed into some sort of scavenger.

"We need to go to the store." He looks up. She pauses mid sip. "We need food and...ah...to go to the drugstore, too. For emergency contraception." He's shame-faced as he says it. Everything's a reminder of how foolish he's been.

"It's okay. We don't need to do that."

"I didn't use protection."

Bella looks him straight in the eye. "I did." That flash of bold defiance does something to him: warms him. Maybe she's not as delicate as he believes.

They wash up the breakfast dishes, take separate showers, tidy away the evidence of the previous night. He feels like a wolf running with the dogs, trying to work out why it feels so right, yet so wrong. Domestic, yet wild. The normalcy of their actions is almost unbearable. As is the knowledge this has to end.

Later, after a warming dinner of pasta and fine wine, they sit out in the yard, sharing a chair, a blanket, the cold November air. He watches her breath escape in little clouds of vapor. Wants to breathe it back in, take it down, harbor it. Swallow her essence until she's part of him.

"Why were you crying when I found you on my porch?" He's been wondering this all night and day. The memory of her arrival preys on his mind. His broken bird, wingless, alone. The image stirs his dead heart.

She doesn't answer at first. Just buries her face in his neck, curling her legs on top of his. When she finally speaks, it's only two words, but they cut him to his core.

"My mother."

The way she says it tells him all he needs to know. So matter-of-fact, almost ruthless. There're years of anguish buried beneath her words, bending each letter into crooked italics. Not "my mother is ill" or "I argued with my mother", though these words would be understandable. It isn't her mother's actions which have caused such desolation, but the mere fact of her existence.

It's a pain he knows all too well.

This time, when he kisses her, it's like a balm for their anguish, his lips moving as if in silent prayer. Lifting her up, he carries her back through the house. She laughs at his sudden movement. The sound warms him faster than the strongest fire. At this moment, it's easy to believe the world's good. That it's full of mothers who love, wives who adore, couples who aren't going to tear each other apart.

But, as with all fairy tales, the darkness always lurks at the edges. Hovering at stage left, waiting for its cue.

Even as he loves her, he can feel it.

Sometimes there's no way to fend off the darkness.


	35. Chapter 35 - Medicine Cabinet

**35\. MEDICINE CABINET**

Most people fall effortlessly to sleep; a gentle tumble into a feather-soft forest. The heartfelt embrace of a warm, welcome friend. Not Edward. Even in slumber his face bears the demons of his pain. He makes sleeping seem like an epic battle—eyes squeezed tight, mouth twisted with effort. Red circles form on the peaks of his cheekbones.

Bella lies there, watching him, tracing the contours of his chiseled face with her eyes. He seems so different to the man who's been holding her close, whispering sweetly in her ear. She tries to reconcile the two: the lover and the sleeper, but her efforts fall far too short.

Pushing herself softly up from the mattress, she swings her legs until her feet hit the cool, wooden floor. She feels rather than sees her way to the bathroom, pulling the door closed behind her before turning on the light, not wanting to disturb his rest, no matter how wretched it looks.

She takes care of business, washes her hands, then glances up at the half-stranger staring back at her through the dusty mirror. Not for the first time she finds herself wondering about her lover's dead wife. She must have stared at herself in this same mirror, maybe applied her makeup as he shaved alongside her. Did they smile at each other's reflections? Did he bend down and place his lips on the top of her head, telling her how beautiful she looked?

Bella's stomach twists, a strange fusion of jealousy and guilt pulling at her abdomen, making her eyes water. It's hard not to hate this ghost of a wife; this dead woman who seems to be everywhere Bella looks. She thinks of Maggie's research, her notes, her bold writing. Large passages of Euripides underlined. There's no escaping her. Larger than life, stronger than death. Her memory seems to haunt them all.

Curious, Bella pulls the mirror toward her, revealing the medicine cabinet behind the glass. Narrow shelves are lined with pills, plasters, bandages, razor blades. Along with a half-used packet of tampons waiting to be reclaimed.

It's this thought that makes Bella sob; realizing Edward hasn't cleared out his dead wife's things, in spite of the year that's passed since her death.

Is Bella only a substitute for a much-adored spouse?

When she climbs back into bed, he stirs, mumbling softly, rolling over to pull her into his arms. He only seems half-awake as he starts to kiss her, his hands feathering down to her hips, his body reacting before he even opens his eyes.

As he pushes inside her, Bella can't shake off the feeling this is all a dream. Wispy, ephemeral, impossible to keep. Still, she clutches him, letting his passion ignite her own, responding to his touch, his taste, the little ball of pleasure growing within. Then she cries out, her head falling back, eyes squeezing tight. She has to bite her lips to stop the words spilling out, because she knows neither of them are ready to hear it.

Not that it makes them any less true.

She's falling in love with Edward Cullen.

And it's killing her.


	36. Chapter 36 - Bleached

**36\. BLEACHED**

He was supposed to drop her off on Sunday night. They had it all planned. He'd park his car in the small cul-de-sac behind the science faculty, she'd creep back to her dorm without being seen. But then he'd kissed her again. She'd dug her fingers into his sides, making soft noises as his lips sucked gently at hers, and he'd been lost.

That's why Edward drives as slowly as he can across campus early Monday morning, almost chasing the sun as it rises in the pale gray sky. He's clasping Bella's thigh with a bleached-white hand, afraid if he lets go she might disappear.

It's wrong. All of it. From the first kiss to the final orgasm. From his whispered desires to their unspoken words. The pain of losing something else he desperately wants seems so raw, so excruciating, it takes his breath away.

When he pulls up to the building he can barely bring himself to look at her. But, feeling the burn of her stare, he drags his gaze until it meets hers, warm brown meeting murky green. The crushing sensation in his chest intensifies.

"Thank you. For everything." A gravel-voiced goodbye. He says it even though he will see her in two hours. Because by then she will simply be his student again.

The thought makes him want to scream.

Her bottom lip trembles. She reaches for the door handle with a shaking hand. It takes everything he has not to wrap his fingers around her slender wrist and pull it away. Instead he watches her open the door and swing her long legs around. Remembering how they felt when they circled his hips.

"You have my number, right? You can call me. Any time. If you want to talk about your mom, or..." He trails off; aware his words are building a wall between them. Moving them from lovers to something else. The imbalance is back: he as her teacher, she his student.

The long weekend's little more than a memory.

"I will. And thank you. You'll find it hard to believe, but this was the best Thanksgiving I've ever had."

Her simple admission crushes him. She doesn't say anything else, merely looks at him with those soulful eyes, the tiniest of smiles painting her lips. This isn't over. It can't be. The monster isn't slayed, the maiden hasn't been saved. Just as a quest can't be abandoned halfway through, nor can their relationship be limited to a single, stolen weekend.

It's bigger than that. Bigger than both of them.

It's going to devour them whole.


	37. Chapter 37 - Rush

**37\. RUSH**

So it begins: a courtship across a lecture room—shy glances, half-smiles; looks that share a memory of passionate nights. He reads epic poetry aloud, stories of brave men and beautiful women meant only for her. Steals Homer's words, making them his own. She takes them in, sealing his words in her heart.

People talk about falling in love as if it's easy to do. But this feels more like a struggle than an effortless drop. A fight through a thick forest that scratches and cuts, leaving her wounded, bleeding. She's pushing against the darkness—both his and her own—but it pushes back, creeping around her, trying to swallow her up.

An hour after the lecture finishes, she gets his first text message. Of course, being Edward, he has to quote the _Iliad_.

_"__There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover's whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad."_

She googles feverishly for the right Homer quote to send back. Smiles when she finds the appropriate _Iliad_ words.

_"__You will never be lovelier than you are now_._"_

A moment later, a reply: _Then come and see me. Now._

She practically runs to the faculty building. Cheeks rosy and pink, breath fast, loud. He opens the door to his office before she can even knock. Pulls her inside, slams it shut.

The danger of being caught adds an edge to, heightens even, their kisses. They're frantic, desperate. Lips crush, tongues battle. His fingers tangle in her hair, cradling her skull, angling her head to his. He grows hard against her stomach, she presses against him, grinding; tasting his groan as it escapes his lips.

When they pull apart, they're silent for a moment. Bella tries to chase her breath, chest heaving as she stares at him. His eyes are bright, hair mussed. The way he looks at her makes her skin heat up.

They've only managed to be apart for two hours. Avoided kissing each other for five. The physical need to be with him overrides anything else: propriety, appearance, college rules.

"Can you stay with me tonight?" He whispers into her hair. "I'll pick you up at six."

"Yes." An immediate reply. With the optimism of youth, she doesn't stop to consider the consequences.

Love makes her blind to everything but him.


	38. Chapter 38 - Doodle

**38\. DOODLE**

As the weeks go on, time becomes supple. Waxing and waning, pulling and pushing. An hour apart can seem infinite. A day together like a half-breath. He lies watching her sleep, her knees curled up to her chest, and realizes there's so much he doesn't know about her.

So much he _needs_ to know.

It's an unequal exchange, though. He only reveals what he can bear for her to hear. Stories of his youth. Practical jokes played on his twin. Alice's uneven revenge. He tells Bella the ones which make her laugh, watching her skin wrinkle up, her lips part. Each chuckle's a victory. Each giggle fit a prize.

But in sleep she's troubled. It troubles him, too. He wants to rub her frowns away, to swallow her cries with his lips. To follow her into those dreams and save her.

It's nearly five in the morning when she stirs. She crosses the threshold between sleep and wakefulness like a blushing bride, eyes slowly opening, a shy smile curling her lips when she sees him.

Watching, always watching.

"Tell me about your mother."

There's a pause as Bella blinks her way into full consciousness. Lines criss-cross her brow. Her eyes stare glassily, seeing things not present in the room.

"She was beautiful...is beautiful. That's the first thing you notice about her. When she used to play with me as a child—on those rare occasions—she was always the princess."

"What were you?"

"The frog, the cat, the prince. Whatever the story needed, that's what I was." Bella smiles wryly. "It never occurred to me _I _should be the princess."

He doesn't speak, doesn't tell her how beautiful he thinks she is. This is her story, he isn't going to steal it from her.

"When I was six she married this guy, someone she met in the bar where she worked. The first time I saw him, she told me to call him dad. He didn't even know my name."

Edward pulls her to his side, wraps his arm around her. Unsure which of them needs the comfort more. His fingers doodle subconscious patterns into her skin.

"The first time he hit her, I was sitting at the table with them. He asked her for a beer, she told him to get it himself. She didn't even see his fist coming. When she threw him out that night, she told him they were over. It took him three days to wheedle his way back in. By the Friday, they were engaged. A few weeks later, they were married."

_The first time he hit her_. Edward tries to imagine a world where it's okay for a man to hit a woman.

"Are they still together?"

"He died of lung cancer when I was ten. I was glad."

"Did he...did he ever hurt you?"

"No." The raw tone of her voice tells him more than the word ever could. Edward knows that pain isn't only caused by five knuckles against a cheek. The worst bruises are the ones which can't be seen.

They're both covered with them.


	39. Chapter 39 - Filthy

**This one's a little late. I overslept!**

* * *

**39\. FILTHY**

A week later, they're sitting in his office. Edward works on a lecture, creating slides, annotating his speech. From the corner of his eye, he sees Bella stand up from the table where she's been working.

"What are your plans for Christmas?" He watches as she arranges her books into a neat pile, layered by size. He's noticed her preference for order over chaos. The once-filthy office has never been so neat, clean. She arrives each day after lectures to finish her assignments. He's taken to clearing out the dirty coffee cups beforehand.

"The dorms are closed. I guess I'll go home." Her voice is a monotone—hesitant, low. "I'll speak with my mom, see what her plans are. I'm sure she's made her own; she always does."

At this point, he can't imagine a day without her, let alone weeks. The thought pains him. "You can stay with me."

There's a silent pause. He feels the need to fill it. "If you don't want to go home, I mean."

When she meets his eyes there's a smile playing at her lips. They're December-red, a contrast to the paleness of her face. "I'd like that."

"Or I could give you the airfare, if you wanted to visit with your mom." Even now, he feels the need to offer her an escape. It's the only thing he can give, too afraid to offer the truth. Every time they talk, fear grips him; this knowledge their relationship's precariously teetering on the edge. One wrong word, they'll both tumble over.

She can never know about Maggie. It would kill her. Him, too.

"I'd like to stay with you. Our Christmases have never been…traditional. I won't be missing anything."

"What do you think is traditional?" He tries not to remember last Christmas. He'd been practically catatonic. Unable to eat or sleep, drinking barely enough to survive. The memory makes him nauseous.

"I don't know, pancakes for breakfast, popcorn strung around the decorated tree." She takes a breath, eyes far away. "Eggnog, carols, Charlie Brown."

His heart aches. She's imagining a child's Christmas. One she's never had. One she'll never get back.

His own were so different. He and Alice were spoiled by his parents, taken to ice shows, lavished with gifts. He wishes he could give it all to Bella.

"That sounds good." He pulls away from his desk, walks over to her, stooping to kiss her ready lips. She tastes of ice-cold winters. Sharp and defined.

She offers a quick kiss. It isn't perfunctory though, more a promise of more to come. "I have to go. Don't want to miss my study group. Call me later?"

"Of course." He'll call, then he'll drive around to their rendezvous spot and meet up with her. Take her home. Show her how much he wants her; how much he cares. "I'll be finished around seven."

He's still smiling when she leaves, staring at the closed door, trying to think of what to buy her for Christmas. Maybe that's why he doesn't hear the footsteps. Barely notices the door slowly opening. It's only when the handle hits the back of the wall that he looks up.

When his sister steps inside, he realizes how close they've come to being caught.


	40. Chapter 40 - Calendar

**40\. CALENDAR**

Alice sweeps into the room in the same way she always has, bringing with her an air of haughtiness, ownership. She used to walk into his bedroom like that, as if she was trying to catch him out. Nowadays, her visits seem designed to haunt rather than discover. She never fails to mention his dead wife. Revels in his response.

"Who was that?"

"Who?" He retreats behind his desk.

"That girl who just left? She has beautiful hair. It reminded me of…"

"Nobody. A student." He knows exactly of whom she's reminded. He knows that fact all too well. But rather than feel angry, as he usually does when she mentions Maggie, relief suffuses him.

It was a close call, too close. But then, everything's too close. In his heart of hearts, he knows his ship's sailing too close to the wind. This thing between them can only end in disaster. But rather than seek a way out, he's blind to the future; stuck in the here and now.

Alice starts to read through his calendar, tacked on to the noticeboard. "You finish lectures on the twentieth?"

"Yes." He's wary. Always is with Alice.

"Good. Maybe we can make some plans. When are you planning to visit Maggie? I'd like to go with you."

"I'm not."

A sigh. Alice closes her eyes as though she can't bear to look at him. "What kind of husband do you call yourself? Have you even visited her grave once since…" Her voice wavers. "I can't believe you could be so cruel...even in death."

Edward says nothing. Simply stares at the woman standing in front of him. They share genes, parents, history; even a womb once. But there's no commonality between them anymore; nothing binds them together. They seem more like rivals than siblings, even before Maggie's death Alice was vying with him for his wife's attention.

Now, they're little more than strangers.

"I'm not her husband anymore."

"You never were much of one, anyway. She told me about the way you treated her. I saw the bruises, and heard her cry. You never deserved her. Not one little bit." Alice's final words are mixed with sobs. When Edward looks at his sister he sees genuine distress. It isn't the first time he's realized how attached she was to Maggie. Even when they first met, she'd trail after his girlfriend like a fangirl, hanging on her every word.

As if Maggie was her religion.

He rubs his face. Sighs. He'd seen the bruises, too. Days old. Ochre, not black. "I need to get back to work. Is there anything else you wanted?"

This time when Alice stares at him; there's an edge of malevolence to her expression. Her mouth twists down as if she's tasted something bitter. Despite their differences, their arguments, Alice's religion of one, he realizes for the first time something's well and truly broken. The gossamer threads which linked them have frayed until they no longer exist.

When Alice opens her mouth, he believes every single word.

"I don't want anything from you."


	41. Chapter 41 - Haggard

**41**. **HAGGARD**

The first snowfall. Christmas. These things arrive unexpectedly for them both. Real life blurring into their alternate reality like a half-exposed photograph. It's so much easier to pretend things are normal when it's only the two of them.

Easier to pretend he isn't lying to her with every breath.

Edward awakes on Christmas Eve and glances at his phone. It's habit rather than interest that draws his eyes. Missed calls from Alice, his parents, a few colleagues. Dozens of unread texts. He ignores them all, pulling on his clothes.

Bella's standing in the kitchen. Feet bare, hair tied up. Wearing a long t-shirt instead of a nightgown. But it's the smile on her face he notices. It's been a hard won gift, perhaps the greatest he's been given. When he pulls her against him and kisses her neck, it almost feels normal.

Real.

"I wanted to make pancakes, but I forgot to buy eggs." Her voice is softened by laughter as his hands tickle her sides.

"I'm not hungry."

"But I want pancakes." The slightest edge of petulance. A reminder of her youth. "It's Christmas Eve."

He's not sure he understands. But if she wants eggs, then that's what she'll get. He grabs his keys, pulls on his coat.

"Do we need anything else?" Another "we." They're like two kids playing house.

"I bought everything else yesterday." Ham, wine, pie. His kitchen has never seen such domestication. Christmas always seemed to skip this house.

Until now.

Outside the snow falls gently, sticking to the ground, the roof, the dead roses. A clean slate. A new dawn. It gives him hope where there was none.

At the store, the parking lot's gridlocked. It takes him ten minutes to find a space. Longer to fight his way inside. He dodges shopping carts full of food—haggard women, over-excited toddlers—locates the eggs in the third aisle, then makes his escape.

Still, he can't find it in himself to be irate. Everything inside him is light, as though he's ingested a balloon full of helium. Maybe too light. If he isn't grounded, he could just drift away.

Perhaps he's still dreaming.

Somebody takes pity on him at the register, letting him cut in line with his single carton of eggs. All the checkout staff are wearing Santa hats and tinsel scarves. The radio blasts out Christmas music. It's so loud he doesn't hear his phone. Simply feels it buzzing in his pocket. He wonders what she's forgotten; whether he has time to pick it up before he reaches the front, as he unlocks the screen with a swipe of his finger.

It's not Bella's name that lights up his screen, but Alice's. He almost ignores the little electronic envelope, yet something makes him look twice. A sixth sense, maybe.

Whatever it is, it changes everything.

**_Answer the door. I know you're in there._**


	42. Chapter 42 - Pipe

**42\. PIPE**

It feels like a mistake as soon as the door slams. An engine starts up, the sound fades away. Bella still doesn't move. Her fingers are curled around the edges of the mixing bowl when she feels the first shiver pulse along her spine.

Something creaks behind her. She whips her head around, but nothing's there. Finally she lets go of the bowl, placing her palm against her chest. Her heart races beneath her ribcage. It's the first time she's been left alone in his house, but she doesn't feel...alone.

It's as though the house holds too many memories. It's saturated with them. They escape the membranes of the wall, pulse around her, whisper into her ear.

But these aren't _her_ memories. The images of Edward and Maggie—kissing, laughing, making love—they're manufactured by her jealous mind. That's what she tells herself.

Even if they seem hyper-real in their intensity.

She washes the white, dusty flour from her hands. An air bubble makes the old pipes bang loudly; this time she actually jumps. An embarrassing laugh escapes her lips, just skating on the edge of hysteria. When she glances at her watch, Bella realizes Edward's only been gone ten minutes.

Another five pass as she pulls on some clothes: a pair of jeans, a red sweater—a sartorial nod to the season. She hums to herself as she walks back to the kitchen; this time when the pipes bang she doesn't jump.

Except she isn't running the tap.

Another loud bang. A female voice shouting through the door. Bella freezes, holding on to the counter, too shocked to move. She's never liked unexpected visits. Has always been wary of strangers. All those men at her childhood breakfast table were enough to put her on edge for life.

When she turns to face the kitchen door, she drops the plate she's been holding. The porcelain smashes on the tiled floor, shards of white scattering around her feet. Right outside the house, there's a dark-haired woman, staring at her through the murky window: red lips open, forming a perfect 'o'; eyes so wide it looks painful.

From somewhere inside the walls, Bella swears she hears a soft peal of laughter.

It takes three attempts to unlock the back door. Bella's fingers shaking too much to gain purchase on the deadbolt. They slip and slide against the metal. The woman watches her silently from the other side of the glass, making Bella's stomach twist with anxiety.

Finally the lock breaks free of its cage, Bella turns the handle. The hinges creak as she pulls the door toward her. The woman stands on the deck, too still, too rigid. Her black pageboy is whipped across her cheek by the breeze, strands sticking to her glossy lips.

Still, she stares. Her neck bobs as she swallows, hands ball into fists. "Where's Edward?" Her voice is deep, almost masculine. It does nothing to put Bella at ease.

"He's at the store. He'll be back soon." A promise? A threat? At this point Bella isn't sure.

"Then who the hell are you?"

* * *

**A/N Thank you again for reading. I'm currently suffering from a tooth abscess, so if I disappear for a day or two, that's the reason. Hopefully I won't, the chapters are written and the lovely Midnight Cougar has been working hard to get them beta'd. But just in case it gets worse...**


	43. Chapter 43 - Punch

**43\. PUNCH**

_"Then who the hell are you?"_

A loaded question that invites too many answers. She settles for the easiest. "Bella."

"Why are you in my brother's house?" _His sister? Alice?_ Her voice has the most unfriendly of tones.

"I'm a...friend."

"Well, perhaps you'll let me in, it's freezing out here." Alice's still staring; can't seem to drag her eyes away. Her constant scrutiny puts Bella on edge. Not enough for her to forget her manners, though. She steps back, allows his sister inside, even takes her coat so she can feel the benefit of the heat. Alice shakes the snow from her hair, puts her purse on the kitchen counter.

And stares.

"Would you like a coffee?" Bella walks around to the machine, trying to put space between herself and Alice. "I was just making one."

Alice nods. For a moment the silence is broken with the opening of cupboards, filling of mugs. Even the fridge joins in, grumbling loudly when Bella opens it. All the while the taste in her mouth is bitterer than the strongest of coffees. When she passes his sister her mug, takes a sip of her own, the only flavor she detects is the strong sense of foreboding.

Because something here is very, very wrong.

"Sit with me." His sister gestures at the kitchen table, pulling out a chair. "I didn't catch your last name."

"Swan." She almost mumbles. "Bella Swan."

"You're friends with Edward? Did you know Maggie?" Her smile seems fake, like a mask. As if it was painted on.

"No. I never met her."

"I expect he talks about her all the time. You must be sick of hearing about her. They were so in love, the perfect couple; it was such a tragedy."

The verbal equivalent of a sucker punch.

Bella feels sick. It's like an iron fist gripping at her insides, squeezing, pulsing, until there's nothing left but pain. The thought of this beauty, the woman who held his heart, is almost too much to bear. She's not sure how much more she can lose.

Alice carries on. "He was devastated; we all were. Such a waste of a young life. Lives, I suppose. I don't think Edward will ever be the same."

_Breathe_, Bella tells herself, but her throat's so tight it hurts. "No, I suppose not."

"Still, it's nice for him to have a…friend." The emphasis Alice puts on the word makes Bella think she knows everything. She can barely bring herself to look up.

When she hears Edward's car pull into the driveway, the relief she feels is palpable.

It doesn't last for long.

* * *

**A/N Thank you for your best wishes yesterday. I'm still in a lot of pain, but am on antibiotics with an extraction booked for Tuesday, so at least there's an end in sight.**


	44. Chapter 44 - Take The Easy Way Out

**44\. TAKE THE EASY WAY OUT**

The tiny sparrow he'd nursed back to health was gone one day when he got home from school. Flew away on its newly mended wings. Even though he'd been twelve—on the cusp of being a young man—he'd cried like a baby anyway.

Much to Alice's amusement.

"You can't keep what was never yours," his mom had told him. Though she was right—because in those days she was always right—he'd mourned the loss bitterly.

When he lets himself in the house, in nervous trepidation from Alice's text, it's the silence he notices first. If he hadn't seen her car outside, he wouldn't have been convinced she was even here. His legs shake a little as he walks up the desolate hallway and pushes open the kitchen door, but what he sees there nearly makes him collapse.

His sister. With Bella.

Drinking coffee at the table.

Seeing them makes him nauseous.

"Alice?" A silent question. _Why are you here? What have you said?_

"Edward." Her smile's sickly sweet. "I was just having coffee with Bella. Your…friend."

When she turns around to look at him, Bella's face is as white the freshly fallen snow. Her wide eyes glisten, confused, full of questions.

His first thought?_ She knows_. The house of cards he's built around them has already collapsed, tumbled, to the ground. Leaving everything scattered.

Thoughts slam into his brain like a sledgehammer. Cause him physical pain. All these weeks together, the soft moments, gentle kisses, they've all been for nothing.

_Because she knows._

"I was telling Bella about Maggie…" Alice tips her head to the side, her gaze never wavering. "How beautiful she was, how much you missed her."

God, she knows everything. He can tell by the trembling of Bella's lips.

"Bella…" He tries to find the words. "I'm so sorry, I should have told you."

Bella shakes her head. A single tear escapes from the corner of her eye. All he wants to do is fall to his knees at her feet, beg forgiveness, gather her into his arms.

Surely, if she lets him, he can make it all go away.

"It means nothing, I promise. Just because you look like her…"

"Like who?"

He shakes his head. Confused. "Sweetheart…"

"She's not your sweetheart. Maggie was your sweetheart." Alice's voice sounds as dead as his wife. Maggots crawl between every word. She stares at him. He glares right back. Years of sibling resentment punctuate every inch between them.

No, no. Maggie was never his sweetheart. "Bella please, just because you look like her, it means nothing. I promise you." He repeats the words, as though they would make any difference.

"I look like her? Like Maggie?" She shakes her head. The furrow between her brows becomes more pronounced.

"You don't 'just look like her'. You're her doppelgänger. You look _exactly_ like her." Alice's voice rings through the thick atmosphere. Pierces it like a dagger. "He's a sick bastard."

He feels like it, too. A monster. Cruel and evil. He watches as Bella crumples in front of him. The light in her eyes is extinguished by the impact of Alice's words.

"I look like Maggie?" She says it again; her voice losing steam, but this time her tone holds more certainty.

He could lie. Take the easy way out. Hustle Bella out of here, leave Alice standing. Tell her his twin sister's sick; she's mad. Doesn't know what she's talking about.

But he's done with the lies, with the pretense. Done with trying to ignore the fact he's head over heels for the girl with Maggie's face. She deserves more, so much more.

Deserves the truth.

_Maggie's doppelgänger. _

"Yes, sweetheart, you do."


	45. Chapter 45 - Outsmart

**45\. OUTSMART**

_Just hold it together._

Broken bones, broken visits. The absence of a mother's love. Bella's lived through all these things, felt the pain, endured it. But nothing's prepared her for what she's been told.

_Hold it together._

When she finally breathes out, it sounds like a sob: harsh, keening, a scream for mercy. An image of Edward burns itself to her brain: laughing, smiling, kissing his wife. Bella tries to blink it away, but it's obstinate. Outsmarts her. Clings to her thoughts like the haunting sound of crying child.

_Hold it._

When the tears fall, she barely notices. She can't see them, anyway. She's blinded by him, by his deception, by the realization she was nothing more than a replacement. A poor imitation of his one true love.

And it hurts, _it hurts. _

_Cuts deep to the soul._

All those looks, those caresses, the soft words whispered in her ear, they were never meant for her. She was merely a stand-in, the understudy stepping in at the last moment. Second-rate, second-choice, a last resort.

She has to fight to inhale. It's as if her body has already given up. Closed down her airways, shut up shop.

"I look like your wife." She states it again, trying to will herself to understand it, believe it. "Your dead wife."

"You could be her carbon copy." Alice's voice. She sounds like she's gloating.

"Bella, please, listen to me." Finally, he steps forward. Reaches out for her. But, it's too late. All she can see is the truth.

The painful, aching truth.

This life was never hers to take.

"I have to go." She doesn't know where, doesn't know how. But she needs to get out of this house. Maggie's house. Edward and Maggie's home. Away from the walls that are closing in. Bella stands up, backs away, leaving Edward standing there, hand reaching out, face imploring.

_Because she looks like Maggie._

"Don't touch me." She continues to retreat. "I can't stand the thought of it."

"I won't. I won't touch you. Please stay."

"Was it always about her? Is that why you asked me to be with you? Because you missed her?" She wipes away the torrent of tears. There isn't time for them. "Is that who you saw when we were…?"

Even if she can't bring herself to say it, he knows. She can tell by the look in his eyes.

"I never saw her when I touched you. It was only you."

Lies, all of them. He's been feeding them to her like a baby. Letting her gobble them up, swallow them down, believing they're good. Each one of them churns in her stomach; reminding her how low she's fallen. How dreadful they really taste.

"You bastard."

She has to bite her lips to stop the screams from escaping. Can't bear to look at him anymore. She whips around, runs down the hallway, out onto the porch.

The cold hits her before she's even down the stairs. Curls around her like an angry lover, icing her skin, making her shiver. Her thin woolen sweater's no match for the snow. The flakes cling to the prickly fibers, soaking the fabric.

Only a fool would stay out here when there's a warm house right in front of her. Only a crazy person would walk away from the heat. But that's what she does, running down the drive, her shoes making patterns in the half-inch of snow.

When she reaches the sidewalk, she sees his car door's open. Keys still dangling from the ignition in his haste to exit. Edward calls her name, chases after her, and she knows there's only one way out.

One way to escape.

She gets in his car, wheels skidding down the drive before Edward can stop her.


	46. Chapter 46 - Challenge

**46\. CHALLENGE**

She drives around for two hours, watching the gas gage slowly dwindle to empty. When it does, and she's running on fumes, Bella realizes she has to make a decision.

It's Christmas Eve. She's alone, penniless. Doesn't have her purse, phone, anything. Even if there was room at the inn, she couldn't afford to pay for it.

At this moment, she has nowhere at all to go.

She drives to campus, parks in Edward's usual spot. The dorms stand empty and silent across the field. The rooms closed up for Christmas, their locks temporarily disabled. She stares at them, looks longingly at her window, three floors up. Then her gaze shifts over to the faculty buildings to her left. And all she can think is...Edward.

As evening creeps in, the air in the car turns from chilled to icy. Bella wraps herself in a throw she finds in the trunk of his car, tries to keep from freezing. Using the dome light as illumination, she passes the time skimming a weathered copy of Dickens she found among the mess on the back seat.

It's bookmarked by an old photograph of his wife.

Any hope she had left disappeared with that discovery. As soon as she saw that face, that hair, her chest felt hollow. It's like looking at another version of herself. More poised, confident, beautiful.

_Loved._

A noise outside the vehicle startles Bella. Then someone's banging on the window. She pulls her coat and blanket closer, tries to make herself disappear.

"Hello? Is someone in there?" Not _his_ voice. The relief she expects to feel is strangely absent. The handle rattles. But she's locked herself in; she isn't stupid. He tries again. "Open the door." She finally looks up, their eyes meet. His widen as he takes her in. "Bella?"

She nods slowly, unlocks the door for him to open. "Professor Whitlock." She remembers him from the coffee incident. A lifetime ago.

"What on earth are you doing in Edward's car?"

She deflects. A question for a question. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I forgot my wife's present. Left it in my desk; she's like a kid, I had to hide it. I thought I'd best pick it up, though; I didn't want to risk her wrath tomorrow morning." He chuckles and holds out his hand, revealing a small, gift-wrapped box. "Does Edward know you're here?"

She shakes her head at his challenge. "N-No...he doesn't." Inhales a shuddering breath. "The dorms are locked up for the holiday. There's nowhere else for me to go."

Jasper's expression softens. He places a gloved hand on the roof of the car, then shivers. "It's bitter. You can't stay here; you'll freeze to death."

She shrugs. _Does it matter?_

"It's Christmas. Do you really have nowhere else to go?"

A little house nestled among trees flashes through her mind. "Nowhere," she whispers. A tremor wracks her body, making his eyes flash with alarm.

"I can't leave you here, my wife would kill me. You can come home to our place. It's warm and comfortable. We even have a guest room."

Bella doesn't move. She remembers another holiday, another room. Her hands shake. "I'll be fine. M-maybe I can get into the dorms tomorrow." _Maybe_.

"I am_ not_ leaving you here in this car, in the freezing cold." His voice is resolute, accepting no challenge. "Either you come with me or I'll have to call Edward and tell him you're here."

Her stomach clenches. Listlessly, she climbs out of the car, stuffing the book and photograph inside her coat pocket. Then she trails after Professor Whitlock to his car parked behind hers, hanging back like a scolded child.

Another holiday, another mess.

_Merry Christmas_.


	47. Chapter 47 - Thwart

**47\. THWART**

The roads are quiet, save for the occasional family-filled car. Bella shifts in her seat—her internal discomfort manifesting itself in an inability to remain still—tries not to look at Jasper's profile as he concentrates on driving.

"Are you okay?" He says it softly, as if speaking to a child.

She stares out the window, resting her chin on her hand. Wonders what kind of response he's expecting.

He gets none.

"I called Maria and asked her to get the guest room ready. She'll take care of you. She can run you a bath, if you like. Warm you up."

But Bella's shivers have nothing to do with the cold now.

The streets are starting to darken, the encroaching blackness thwarted by the holiday. Christmas lights flash on, one after another. Santas laugh, reindeer pull, presents glow. It isn't the first time she's felt like an outsider looking in. But this time the pill's so bitter. Such a contrast to the former sweetness.

They arrive at Jasper's house—a small cottage on the edge of town. Yellow lights glow from the windows. The path's been cleared, but the rest of the snow remains. It's Christmas-card pretty.

When she gets out, the photograph falls from her pocket. Flutters slowly, landing face down on the snowy, wet gravel. She bends down to retrieve it, but Jasper gets there first. He turns it over. Stares. Frowns.

"You knew Maggie?" He hands the photograph to her. Reluctantly, she takes it.

She shakes her head. Doesn't know what to say. When she opens her mouth a sob escapes.

"Christ." He pulls her close, rubs her arm. Together they walk up the path. By the time they reach the door it's already open. A petite brunette is standing in the doorway. She's wearing an apron. Her face dusted with flour.

As soon as Bella looks at her, the woman's face twists. Not in anger, not in shock. Not even in pity. It's compassion Bella sees when she stares at Jasper's wife.

"Bella? Come in, get warm." She puts her hand on Bella's arm. "I have some hot tea for you."

Bella walks inside, her fingers still clinging to the wet photograph. The snow has melted on it, smeared the ink, blurred Maggie's face. But though the image has faded, the anguish remains.

Because as much as Bella hates him, she misses him, too.

His touch, his lips, his arms.

The way he knows more about her than anybody else.

That thought makes her feel more alone than ever.


	48. Chapter 48 - Pelt

**48\. PELT**

Sharp words. Bitter accusations. Both spat out and received. Old memories are resurrected with the most scathing of insults. Alice snaps like a dog, growling, circling. For the first time he bites her right back.

Her surprise when he tells her to go is almost gratifying.

Almost.

After Alice leaves, Edward stares out at the snow. Watching as each flake joins its brothers, bonding together into a frozen mass. He thinks about Bella, out there in the cold, driving his car while the snow pelts down. Remembers the shattered expression on her face when he admitted the truth.

He slayed her.

It kills him.

Campus security call at five, wanting to know if there's a problem with his car, whether it will be parked in the vacant lot all holiday. They confirm it's unharmed, empty, carefully parked in its usual spot. As if it had never been taken at all.

That's when he knows it's over. She's left him, left his car. Severed ties which were already fraying at the edges. He recalls her final words, her anguished stare. The way she skidded out of his driveway.

He could blame Maggie. Believe even in death she avenges herself. Takes away the things he loves. Crushes them until they're little more than dirt on the ground. But this isn't Maggie's fault, just as it isn't Bella's fault.

As angry as he is at his sister, it isn't her doing, either.

The blame rests solely on him.

He's wallowed for so long he's forgotten what it's like to be normal. To be honest with himself. He'd become so used to the darkness, rather than sharing her light, he'd snuffed it out. Tried to drag her in with him.

Night falls. He makes a coffee, ignoring the siren call of the whiskey bottle, half-open in the cupboard. Ignores the fridge full of uneaten food. Turkey pale, unroasted. Saran-wrapped pies that will never be enjoyed. Leaning on the counter, he sips the unsatisfying liquid, staring out at the yard. All those evenings spent sitting out there chain smoking. He thought he was escaping Maggie.

Turns out he was escaping himself.

He'd found the perfect hiding place in Bella. Used their passion to wipe out his guilt. Used her lips to erase the taste of another's. Somewhere along the way, though, he'd fallen in love with her.

And then he broke her.

When his phone rings, he feels his heart leap. Then sees Jasper Whitlock's name. The first time he lets it go to voicemail. The second time, too. By the third time, he's worn out by the shrill sound. Accepts the call. Lifts it to his ear.

"Jasper?"

"Edward, we need to talk."


	49. Chapter 49 - Savage

**49\. SAVAGE**

The bath warms her. Calms her. The steam curls her hair, the water wrinkles her skin. She stays in there until it grows too cold to bear. When she climbs out, she pulls on the pajamas Maria has loaned her. Red with green Christmas trees; they're warm, cozy. A costume to wear on this parody of a Christmas Eve.

"You're out. Can I get you a hot chocolate?" Maria turns and smiles at Bella when she walks into the den. An old holiday movie flickers across the TV screen. Jasper's nowhere to be seen.

"That would be nice." Bella offers a small smile. "Can I help?"

"Of course."

Later, when the movie's over, the chocolate drunk, Maria switches on some music.

"Where's Jasper...I mean Professor Whitlock?"

"He's taking Edward to pick up his car."

A savage anxiety pulls at Bella's stomach. "They're not coming here are they?"

"No, no, sweetheart, I promise." Maria takes Bella's hand. "Are you scared of him? What did he do to you?"

Lied. Cheated. Made her feel as if she was something special. "I didn't know I looked like Maggie. I thought he wanted me for me. Not as a remembrance. Not because I looked like her."

"You were in a relationship?"

Bella nods.

"You're his student, though?"

Nods again.

"What on Earth was he thinking?" Maria pulls her closer. Embraces her. Bella resists at first, afraid if she yields she will crumble. But the warmth's enticing, the need to be comforted strong.

The first tears start to fall as Bella melts into Maria's welcoming arms. Angrily, she wipes them away. So sick of crying, so tired of being the victim; just so sick and tired. For the first time she realizes life is a series of choices. She may have no control over what happens to her, how people treat her, but she's in total control of how she reacts.

On that cold Christmas Eve, folded in the arms of a stranger, she makes a vow.

She won't be the victim anymore.


	50. Chapter 50 - Harness

**50\. HARNESS**

The room is silent. The air thick with confession, repentance. Edward lays himself bare, awaits the judgement. In his own mind he's already been tried and sentenced.

It takes some moments for Jasper to reply.

"You had sex with your student?" He sounds aghast. "Jesus, Edward. The ethics committee will have a field day with this one. I can't believe you'd be so stupid."

They're standing in Edward's kitchen. It doesn't seem like a conversation they should have sitting down. This isn't a chick flick. They aren't exchanging confidences.

Edward's effectively ending his career.

"It wasn't just sex." He's not sure why he needs to clarify this point. Why he needs to be understood. Sighing, he rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands. Why should he expect anybody else to understand when he can barely process it himself? "It doesn't matter what it was anymore. I made some mistakes and I'm prepared to pay."

"What about Bella?"

That's what it all comes down to. The thought that's been consuming him since she left. He knows he can never make up for this disaster. Will never atone for his sins. But he still owes her something.

_Everything._

"How is she?" Does he want to hear the answer? He'll be devastated if she's destroyed. Wants nothing more than to sacrifice himself for her happiness.

"She's…" Jasper pauses, as if trying to find the right description. "I don't know. She seems pretty shocked. I can't believe you didn't tell her about Maggie."

"I can't either." Edward's voice is soft, penitent. "I never meant to hurt her."

"Did you not think? Christ, it's not only your career you've ruined. What about her? She's what, eighteen, nineteen? She could be thrown out of school because of this; it could ruin her education for good."

Edward stares out the window. In spite of the winter beauty, all he's capable of seeing is her.

Bella.

The way she stared at him after Alice's words.

The shock, the misery.

The image causes him physical pain. A swift knee to the groin.

"You know I'm ethically bound to report this, right?" Jasper says. Rubs his brow with stiff fingers. "As much as I don't want to, she was your student. We have a code of conduct."

Edward turns to look at his colleague, sees his agonized expectation. Another innocent caught up in this mess. And though he should feel scared, trepidatious, fearful he'll lose his job, it means nothing. Nothing at all.

After all he's been through, losing his position is the least of his worries. Even with his eyes wide open, it's still Bella's face he sees.

In that house on a cold Christmas Eve, he makes a decision. Perhaps the first sane one in a year. His resolve strengthens him, gives him hope. He's been selfish, that much he knows. Believed the world revolved around him. Saw her as the solution to all his sins.

He was wrong. So very wrong.

Turning to Jasper, Edward clears his throat. Tries to harness the pain.

"There's no need to report it. I'm going to resign as soon as the college is open for the new semester. I won't let her be punished again."


	51. Chapter 51 - Stump

**51\. STUMP**

The campus is caught up in the coldest January in a decade. When Bella breathes out, the droplets of water freeze in the air. She inhales, it freezes to her lips. She doesn't stop to talk to anyone, rushes from building to building, head down, covered with a hat and scarf. Even in lectures, she listens quietly, too cold, numb, to do anything but breathe. It takes long minutes for the warm air to make her forget some of her discomfort. At least on the exterior. It's not only the weather that makes her lethargic and slow.

Bella welcomes the silence, though. Revels in it. Tries not to listen to talk of family holidays, gifts exchanged, parties attended. Deflects questions away with quick nods, slow shrugs.

People tend not to ask twice.

Even with her head bowed, she sees him everywhere she looks. Imagines angry confrontations, tearful confessions. Wants to kiss and slap him at the same time. But he's not here; he's not anywhere. He's disappeared from plain sight. His absence more painful than the bitterest of winds.

The next day she becomes braver. Walks into the faculty building, up to his office. Plans to shout at him, rail against his deceptions, but the words turn to ashes on her lips.

The room's empty, save for the furniture. Where pictures hung on the walls, only squares of dark paint remain. A few books lay stacked on the table where Bella worked. She doesn't have to look at them to know which ones were left behind.

Maggie's books.

Bella steps inside, runs a finger down their spines. She's not certain why they're here when all else is gone. A sudden urge to destroy takes over her body. In one fell swoop, she swipes them to the ground. They land with a resounding crash.

Deep in her stomach, the panic starts to rise. Squeezes her from the depths of her soul, until there's no air left in her body. It paralyses her muscles, makes her still as a statue. Seeing the evidence of his departure...slowly kills her.

"Bella?"

She doesn't turn her head to look, recognizing Jasper's low voice immediately. He steps inside the office, heels tapping against the wooden floor, his shadow blocking out the light.

"Are you okay?"

A shake of her head. Because this isn't okay. None of it. It hasn't been for a long time. Her anger against everything fades into a painful longing.

She feels empty, hollow, barren like the room. Where her heart once beat only a stump remains. The acid of her memories eat her from the inside out. Disintegrating in its wake.

"Come here." Jasper pulls her into his arms, but she doesn't hug him back. In spite of the warmth, she remains frozen to the ground, her world shattering into tiny pieces.

"It's going to be okay. I promise."

"But he's gone." She says it as if it's a revelation.

"He's leaving, yes."

She pulls back, wipes her eyes. Stares up at Jasper. "Leaving? He hasn't left yet?"

Confusion muddles her thoughts. She can't work out if she should be pleased or not. Whether she's looking for closure or continuation. All she knows is she can't go on like this any longer.

It's too much.

"Not yet. Soon, though."

"Then, where is he?" A sliver of impatience works its way through her tone. "If he's not here."

"He's staying at my house, while he closes up his own."

She shuts her eyes, rubs the spot in her temple where the pain's started to throb. Tries to calm down her breathing enough to think. Then she looks up at Jasper, into his worried frown.

"I need to see him."

* * *

**A/N This is the first of two updates today (Friday. My time, at least.) Double post because I'm travelling to Spain on Saturday and theres no wifi on the plane. The good news is there's wifi at our villa, so I still plan to post daily from Sunday. Lots of thanks to sparrow and midnightcougar for getting me all the chapters so I can post.**

**Have a good week. And thank you for reading. :)**


	52. Chapter 52 - Lyric

**This is the second of two posts today. If you haven't read chapter 51, you may want to navigate back to it!**

* * *

**52\. LYRIC**

"I don't understand." The Dean looks down again at the letter Edward has handed him; the papery-thin skin between his eyebrows crinkles.

Edward clears his throat. "I'm resigning, sir. As I explain in the letter, I don't think I can work here any longer. I need to get away. After everything that's happened."

It's not as painful as he thought it would be. In comparison to losing Bella, nothing is. The events of the past two weeks have allowed him to think things through. For too long he's behaved like a victim, while causing pain to others.

No more.

"This seems very rash. I know you've been through a lot, but…" He clears his throat. "You're an excellent professor, Edward. Maybe if you think on it you'll change your mind. How about we talk again on Friday?"

"No." Things won't look any different then. He has a task to perform. A promise made, an agreement kept. He'd put Jasper in such a difficult position. Bound by his adherence to the college's ethical code, he had little choice than to report Edward's misconduct.

Add it to Edward's tally of misdeeds. A stick full of angry slashes.

"It's the middle of the year. Where are we going to find a replacement for you at such late notice? You're putting me in a tough position, Edward."

A pang of regret. Guilt. "I can speak with my colleagues, ask them to cover the semester." He's been running on autopilot for so long, it won't be difficult for them to take up the slack. "But I can't come back here, ever again."

For one, crazy moment he considers telling the truth. Wax lyrical about it. Spill it onto the polished wood floor, misdeed by misdeed. Imagines the Dean's face when he hears the scandal. Considers the implications.

No, that's something he could never do. Not when it would affect Bella. She's been broken enough.

"You realize you have a notice period? I could make you adhere to it; sue you if you didn't comply. At least see out the year. Take a sabbatical. What's so urgent you have to leave right away?"

Edward wants to laugh. If the Dean knew the truth, he'd be hustling Edward out of his office right now.

The Dean sits back in his chair, dropping the letter onto his desk. With his hands clasped together he looks like a parody of a Bond villain. "You'll be called up in front of the board, of course, to discuss your contract—"

"That's fine. Make it tomorrow, please, as I'm flying to Athens on Wednesday." Edward's voice is calm, collected.

"You're what?"

"I'll be gone for a year. So it's either tomorrow or next January. Up to you."

"This could ruin your career. If word gets out that you're unreliable…"

Edward scarcely considers the threat. It's meaningless after everything that's happened. He's more concerned about Bella, protecting her scholarship, her good name.

Only five people know the truth, and all of them will be silent. Even Alice, after fair warning, has agreed to this stipulation. Nonetheless, Bella's resemblance to Maggie could mark her out. He's taken the precaution of leaving a sum of money at Jasper's disposal, should anything happen to her funding.

"Then there's nothing more to be said. I hope you know what you're doing, Edward. The...ah...tragedy of what happened to your wife will only go so far in explaining your actions."

"My dead wife has nothing to do with it." For the first time, Edward raises his voice. "I take full responsibility for my actions." He stands up, exhausted by this conversation. So tired of this college, all the pretenses. "If you need to speak to me, my lawyer will be able to contact me."

When he leaves the faculty building, the campus is already awake, full of cheerful students, rushing across the green. Leaning on a tree, he pulls out his phone.

"Hello?"

"Jasper?"

"Edward. How did it go?"

A shrug. "It's done. I no longer work here." A brief pause while he thinks of the right way to ask. "I've kept my side of the bargain. Now, can you speak to Bella? Let her know I want to see her, to explain."


	53. Chapter 53 - Flip

**53\. FLIP**

At the age of eight, Bella broke her wrist after a flip on the monkey bars at school. Though the pain was excruciating, she'd been stoic all through the x-rays and the setting, the consultation and the discharge. The doctor told her that breaks like that healed over quickly, made the joint stronger than ever.

But the heart isn't a bone. While there may be a scab forming over the membranes of her pain, it's easily breached. She protects it as nobody else can. Wears a breast shield of resoluteness to ward off any wounds.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Since Christmas Eve, Jasper's been her protector. He and Maria managed to coax the whole, sordid tale from her. Treated her as the child they'd never had—holding her while she cried, insisting she eat when she didn't feel the slightest bit hungry.

"I need the closure."

Jasper leads Bella down the hallway of his cottage, out into a glass room that must be beautiful in summer. Even in winter, it's lit up with tiny lamps, all sparkling from the ceiling. "He's in there."

She pauses for a moment before walking through the door. Takes a deep breath, tries to picture what's behind it. Will he still be broken, mourning his wife? Could she bear it if he was?

The door sticks when she pushes at it; the wood ill-fitting from years of humid summers and ice-cold winters. When it finally loosens from the frame, the force slams it against the wall. The crash makes her jump.

Then he's there. Not the monster of her nightmares, or the angel of her dreams. It's Edward,_ her Edward_—the one who carried her in when she'd forgotten how to live. He's staring at her with that expression on his face—the one she thought meant love.

Except the love was never meant for her.

"Bella. Thank you for seeing me." He keeps his distance. She wonders how much Jasper's told him. "It's more than I expected."

Her legs shake when she walks toward the nearest chair. She sits down before she falls. "I need to hear the truth."

"I want to give it to you. And I promise, once I do, I'll be out of your life. I've resigned from my position. I'm leaving, at least for a while. I don't want to cause you any more pain. I'm so very, very sorry." He runs a shaking hand through his hair.

"You've already caused me pain, the minute you lied to me. You should've told me you only wanted me because I looked like _her_. The woman you loved."

His jaw drops, mouth opens, then he leans forward as if to grab her hand. When he stops himself, pulls back, she almost feels disappointed.

"That's not true. I promise you that. I never slept with you because you looked like her. Never fell in love with you for that reason."

When she finally meets his gaze, she can see his sincerity. It touches her enough to make her heart flip. "No?"

Slowly, he shakes his head. "No. I'm not going to lie to you, there's a strong resemblance. That's why I noticed you in the lecture theater. But I wasn't looking for a replacement for Maggie. I never would." He takes a deep breath. Plays nervously with his fingers. "I didn't love my wife, Bella. I hated her."

She can't tear her eyes away from him. He's staring right back, his eyes glinting beneath the ceiling lights, chest rising and falling rapidly. For some reason, his revelation makes her want to smile, to laugh, to celebrate. It makes her feel light when she should be on the ground.

So finally, _finally_, she brings herself to ask the one thing they've both been avoiding for weeks.

"Tell me about your wife."


	54. Chapter 54 - Flare

**54\. FLARE**

_Tell me about your wife_.

It's not as if he wasn't expecting the request. He's been asked it before, in a room more clinical than this. Yet it's the first time it causes him physical pain. Flares in his chest like a firework. It's his burden, his secret.

He doesn't want her to share it.

But it's no longer his choice.

"I first met Maggie when I was twenty-seven. She was three years younger. I was studying for my doctorate at the time. It was my sister who introduced us. They'd met at some charity function, or whatever it was, and became the closest of friends." He sits back, eyes closed as he remembers those days. Maggie was a ball of energy, drawing everybody in. Burning so bright everything else was dull in comparison.

_Everybody else._

Of course he'd been dazzled—who wouldn't be? "When she turned her sights on me, everybody was amazed. Alice most of all, I think. I'd always been the quiet one, the studious loner. When I showed an interest back, they thought I was punching above my weight, that she was slumming it. I guess I probably did, too."

When he leans forward, placing his elbows on his thighs, Bella does the same, unconsciously mirroring him. He breathes, she breathes. He blinks, so does she.

"Looking back, I think I knew, from the beginning, something was off. I wasn't that experienced with women. I'd had a few girlfriends through high school and college, but nothing particularly serious. And Alice...well, she never really behaved like other girls, either."

"Something was off?" Bella reflects his words right back. He's reminded of therapy: white walls, expressionless faces.

"There were times when, while we were dating, Maggie would disappear for a few days. I'd call her frantically, go to her apartment, but she was never there. Then she'd turn back up without a word, as if she'd never been gone."

"Where was she?"

"At the time, I had no idea." He shrugs. "She would never tell me, and after a while I just gave up." He sighs, shaking his head. "All I know is…she wasn't ready for the mask to slip. Not then."

Bella visibly shudders. He has to stop talking for a moment. Collect himself. As hard as it is for him to talk about, it has to be harder for Bella to hear.

"I know I sound weak. _I was_. Blinded by her beauty, her charisma. I was used to taking things on face value, to believing things were as they appeared. But eventually I cracked, demanded to know where she was, threatened to end it. Maggie begged me not to leave her, to give her another chance. Promised me it was nothing. She kept her word, too. At least for a while. She became more attentive, less distant. Stopped disappearing for days on end. For a few years we were a golden couple. The toast of campus, the apple of our parents' eyes. And Alice's. She basked in the reflected glory, I guess. We all did. Everybody loved spending time with Maggie. Back then she was a different person, too. We were happy. I truly believed it, at the time."

Edward stops again, takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly.

Bella knows there's more to come.

"I was finishing my PhD and she was working in a lawyer's office in the city, so we were both very busy. Whenever we did go out, though, people would stare at her enviously. Men and women. She drew them all in. When we'd been together for five years, it seemed natural we should move in together, but she wanted more. Wanted us to be married first. Of course I agreed."

Who refused Maggie anything? She was a pampered child, an adored adolescent. By the time she reached adulthood, she took worship as her due.

"About three months after our wedding I realized what a grave mistake I'd made."

* * *

**A/N Hola from Espana.**

**A few of you have mentioned _Rebecca_ previously in your reviews. There's definitely a nod and a wink to Daphne Du Maurier here. There are some crucial differences too, if you read on.**

**Next chapter will be posted as soon as I wake up tomorrow.**


	55. Chapter 55 - Dynamic

**A little warning. There is a darkness and some talk of abuse in this chapter. I hope it isn't gratuitous, but I know it can be hard to read for some. **

* * *

**55\. DYNAMIC**

Bella's not sure of the dynamic anymore. At first, she wanted answers, to know why he'd treated her so poorly. But now, hearing him describe his wife, watching the way his face twists in agony with every memory, it feels more like a confession. Perhaps he's seeking absolution.

It isn't hers to give.

"Why was it a grave mistake?"

He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. Simply from his actions, she can tell they're getting to the painful part. She braces herself in her seat, a passenger waiting for the crash.

"Maggie wasn't...she didn't..." He sighs, grits his teeth. "She had a cruel streak. Not all the time, it would come and go. It started again shortly after we were married. Things were fine for a while, then her behavior began to change and she started to disappear again. I'd be beside myself every time. Each time she came home I wasn't sure if I was delighted or devastated. And I never asked her where she'd been because, by then, I was too afraid to hear the answer." He shudders, as if the memories are causing him pain. "But the first time she admitted where she'd been, it fucking slayed me."

Bella says nothing. She knows he'll tell her when he's ready.

"Maggie had a strong sex drive. Stronger than most. She used to taunt I wasn't man enough for her, that she always needed more than I had to give. The first time she told me about her...flings...she actually laughed at my response. Told me I should be happy it was me she came home to after all those parties."

He glances up, catches Bella's eye. "I'm guessing you know the sort of parties I mean. Looking back, I was an idiot. Should have left her right away, but I let myself be drawn in, let her belittle me until I felt worthless. It was my fault for not fulfilling her. Sometimes, she'd crawl into bed in the middle of the night and describe every act." Edward stops, rubs his face with the heel of his hands. "She'd get me...hard and climb on top of me. Tell me I wasn't as big as her latest lover. When I came, I'd feel like the lowest of the fucking low."

He can't even bring himself to look at Bella anymore. He doesn't want to see what she thinks of him.

If he only knew, though. She wants to reach out, to touch him, but he's like a stone: unyielding. Not ready to be touched.

"I didn't tell anybody. What could I say? 'I'm letting my wife cuckold me and fuck me when she comes home after being away for days; God knows where, doing God knows what.' Imagine the way people would have laughed. I imagined it all the time. I was weak, Bella, didn't even argue with her. When I asked her to use a condom at least, she laughed in my face. I can't even begin to tell you how lucky I was not to catch something. Believe me, I got tested. A lot."

Bella winces. He immediately reassures. "I'm clean. I can promise you that. I would never have put you in danger. Not after everything I've been through."

Her voice is thin. Strained. "You were abused."

"She was the one with the bruises. Striped like fingers across her arms. Inky smudges between her thighs. She used to make me touch them. Caress them. Told me how she got every single one."

He finally looks up. Tears roll down his cheeks. Flatten on his skin when he shakes his head. "I should have been stronger. It took me until last year to realize I couldn't go on like that. By that point I was at my lowest. I had nothing left to lose. Or so I thought. Last September I finally told her I was leaving. That I wanted a divorce. I even found a short term rental in town."

Bella doesn't allow this revelation to lighten her heart. They both know there's no happy ending here.

"Then Maggie pulled her coup de grâce. Asked me to meet her to talk things over. When I got to the house she'd made dinner. Lit candles. Gave me a glass of wine. When I tried to walk away, she passed me a piece of paper, a sonogram picture. Told me she was pregnant."

Sick. She's going to be sick. Bella tries to swallow down the vomit, but it lingers in her throat. The taste is vile.

"I actually laughed in her face. I felt strong, invincible. I'd finally broken free and there was no way she was pulling me back in. Even if she was pregnant, I didn't believe it was my child. When I told her that she started crying, begging. Told me I was wrong; that there was a chance it was mine, and she couldn't do it without me."

He stops again, looks down at his feet. "I just wanted out. I needed to be done. So…I told her if she couldn't cope, she should get rid of it."

His next breath is ragged. Bella echoes it, covering her mouth to stop a cry from escaping.

"I didn't mean it. Not like that. I swear I didn't."


	56. Chapter 56 - Social

**56\. SOCIAL**

"Medea." It's the only word she can think of: the ultimate revenge. Kill a man's children because he's done you wrong. All those notes in the margin, the larger than life scrawl. Maggie wasn't doing research. She was learning how to torture her husband.

So very cruel.

"I don't think she intended to go through with it. We were apart for a few weeks. Then she left me a voicemail, asking me to meet with her again that evening at seven. I think she expected me to save her. To realize she couldn't live without me. I think it was a cry for help. That she was _finally_ reaching out to me…for real."

When he looks at Bella it's as if he's begging for her to agree. That his wife wasn't sick enough to do that to herself, to a baby.

To him.

Bella can barely breathe. She can't say anything. Her words are caught up in the horror of his story. Muffled by the realization of his pain. But she can move, and she does.

She stands up, stares at this broken husk of a man. He's curled in on himself, keening, rocking back and forth. She aches to throw herself to her knees, to hold him, to tell him it's all going to be all right.

But it isn't. None of this is right. She thought they could heal each other, themselves, but all they've done is paper over the cracks.

"Those books..." she whispers. "All her notes. She was so angry, so vengeful. I didn't realize she wasn't talking about Medea and Jason. She was talking about you."

A social psychopath.

"She must have taken them from my shelves. I can't bring myself to read them. I still want to burn them. I don't even know why I asked you to study the goddamned things."

Bella knows. A cry for help. A shot in the dark. Perhaps even then, he sensed she could share his pain. "You _should _burn them. Every one. Maybe burn down your house while you're at it."

His laugh holds no humor. "If I could get away with it, I would. I'm going to sell it while I'm away. Jasper's agreed to help."

"He's been a good friend to both of us."

Edward nods. "He has."

They're quiet for a moment. She takes the opportunity to look at him again. In spite of the tears, he looks calmer somehow. Lighter. He holds his shoulders squarer, his spine straight.

"Thank you for telling me about Maggie," she says pointedly, letting out a big breath.

He looks up, meets her gaze. "You're the only person I've told; thank you for not judging me."

It's these words, rather than the horror of his story, that finally breaches the dam. As hot tears spill over from her eyes, she covers her mouth, trying to muffle her cries.

She thinks about all he's been through, all he's had to overcome.

About that poor, innocent baby, used as a weapon of mass destruction by its mother.

And Bella thinks about now—he's leaving, and it will break her heart to say goodbye.


	57. Chapter 57 - Discount

**57\. DISCOUNT**

"You must hate me," Bella whispers. She touches her face with the tips of her fingers, as if she's trying to find Maggie there. "For looking so like her."

His voice is thick when he answers. Pained. "I thought I did at first. I believed you were some kind of retribution, sent to make me atone." He closes his eyes, remembers that first time he saw her when she walked into his lecture room. How he thought he'd finally lost his mind. "But I don't see her at all when I look at you now. Haven't for some time." He opens his eyes. "You're too good, too pure, for me to ever see her in you. And I could never hate you."

"I'm not pure."

For the first time in what seems like days, he smiles. "Not in the traditional sense, maybe. But there's a purity to your soul that'll always be there, Bella."

Her mouth forms the smallest of frowns. "I don't want to be put on a pedestal. I'm not a Saint or a God. I just want to be loved. To love."

He could tell her...everything he feels. He could admit it all now, beg her to wait for him, tell her he adores her.

But that would be cruel.

"You will. Because you're beautiful. Inside and out. And you saved me when I thought I was unsalvageable. Helped me to find myself again." It's painful being so far away from her. He stands up, takes a step forward. All that's separating them is a foot of air.

"Then why are you leaving?"

The way her lips tremble makes him want to cry. Before he can stop himself, he traces them with his thumb, feeling their softness, their warmth. She closes her eyes—it feels like goodbye.

"Because I have to get away from here. I have some thinking to do, some soul searching, some healing that needs to be done. I've always loved Greece, the blue sea, warm skies. The way ancient history seems to blend with modern life. It's so different to here."

He wants to ask her to go with him. Considers it. Can almost picture her against the landscape. "It's only for a year," he says softly. "I'll be back before you know it. Just like me...only better."

"Will you write to me?" She opens her eyes. Looks suddenly embarrassed. It makes him want to scrub the blush from her cheeks. It's the sweetest question he's heard in a long while.

"Every day, if you'd like."

She smiles. "I'd like that. Very much."

His hand still rests on her cheek. She leans into it for a tender moment. Enough for him to feel the warmth of her flesh, the softness on his skin. He wants to bottle the sensation, declare it in customs. Tell the world she's perfect.

"And Edward?"

"Yes?"

"You were wrong. I didn't save you. You're saving yourself, just as I'm saving myself. We merely started it together."

He hears her words. Absorbs their truth. Can't discount what she says. They lighten his heart and crush it at the same time.


	58. Chapter 58 - Kettle

**58\. KETTLE**

She goes back to her dorm, switches on the kettle, drinks coffee. Waits for the dam to break. Waits to collapse beneath the weight of his truths. When she wakes the next morning, checks the time, she knows his flight has left. Even the knowledge he's in another country—another continent—isn't enough to break her.

Her own strength surprises her. She tests it, pokes it with thoughts of Edward; remembering his words, his face, the way he looked when he confessed the truth. And though the memories are painful, they don't kill her, don't drag her under.

Instead, they make her yearn for more.

Life goes on. Bella goes to lectures, visits the library, hangs around in the communal area. Mike teaches her to play foosball like a demon, earning her the nickname "Baby Becks." Much to her chagrin and his amusement.

She gets a little taste of the ordinary. Of a fun, college life. It's soft, sweet on her tongue. It comforts, but it doesn't inspire. Even a fleeting visit from her mother doesn't kill, though she's tempted to ignore her. Instead she grins, bears it all. Realizes if she can get through his leaving, she can get over anything.

The thought strengthens her even further. Gives her resolution.

When Edward's first letter arrives after two weeks, it's as if her body's remembered how to feel. Her heart beats a little faster, breath comes a little harder. Her eyes linger on every word he's written. Reads meaning into the way he curls the 'B' of her name, his writing slanted, yet precise.

It's a short letter, but sweet nonetheless. He recounts the tediousness of his journey, the sorry tale of a lost piece of luggage, a funny story involving an old Greek widow and her tiny dog. As she reads, she can almost hear him, the timbre of his voice, the self-deprecation of his words. Though he doesn't mention the past weeks, their memory's present in every sentence, lending them a wistfulness that tugs at her chest.

His second letter comes a few days later. As before, she devours it with a voracious hunger. Eats his words, feels their nourishment. When she opens the final leaf of notepaper, a photograph falls out, landing face down on her desk. Bella turns it over carefully, not wanting to smudge the image, as soon as she sees it she starts to laugh.

A selfie. Taken with an SLR, rather than a phone, she can tell by the set of his jaw that he's determined, trying to get himself in the shot. She wonders how many attempts he made, how many cut-off faces there were, until he managed to get the right angle.

Because it _is_ the right angle. It's glorious. Behind him is nothing but green olive trees, cerulean skies, unhindered by cloud. While the scenery is beautiful, it's the subject himself who's truly breathtaking. He's squinting into the sun, the corner of his mouth quirked up in a half-smile. His face is still too thin, hollow, but she likes to think she sees a hint of fullness where before there was none. It's taken two weeks for the winter sun to steal his unhealthy pallor. In a year he may not be recognizable.

Even if he is different, changed, she'll know him anyway. From the way her heart thumps and her breath is stolen.

If she were blind, she'd know him by voice. If she were deaf, she'd recognize him by touch. If she had no senses at all—was little more than a shell of a person—she'd know he was there, because he always has and always will be in her soul.

He may be six thousand miles away, but he's never left her.


	59. Chapter 59 - Appeal

**59\. APPEAL**

At first, he's a nomad. Roaming from town to city, he drinks up experiences as if they were the finest of wine. He overindulges in sightseeing, in suppers, in sweet Baklava that coats his tongue with honey.

Throws away his final carton of cigarettes.

He breathes.

It's pure and simple.

Inhales without pain, exhales without fear. Though there's regret mixed in with the oxygen, it lightens every day, until his lungs are filled only with the sweetest of air.

There's something about the ancient beauty of Greece which lends perspective. He comes to see his troubles not as a tragedy, but as a few years of sadness. He isn't a character in a play, destined night after night to take the same, devastating steps into catastrophe. His life lays before him, an open book. It's up to him to write the ending.

Tragedy, comedy, romance. The choice is his.

This insight is freeing. It gives him hope.

He thinks of her constantly. Writes long letters describing the ruins he visits. Tells her how he tripped at the Parthenon, lost his glasses after too much ouzo in a backstreet taverna. That the olives here are juicier than any he's ever tasted.

When he sees beauty it reminds him of her. It makes him warm.

She sends him emails, rather than letters, for fear they may go astray. He racks up an exorbitant phone bill, but doesn't blink an eye. The appeal to read her words is strong, worth it.

Some things are too precious to worry about.

One evening he's drinking viscous red wine in a cliff side restaurant, watching the sun as it slowly falls into the Aegean. The sound of waves lapping against the rocks below caresses his ears, adding to his sense of well-being. This warmth that glows inside him is so pleasant, so intense he can't simply attribute it to the wine. It's stronger than that. More visceral. It takes him a few moments to pinpoint the feeling.

Happiness.

Though nobody can see his face, he smiles anyway. Inhales the fresh, salty air through his stretched lips. It's almost perfect, this feeling of contentment. It would be if he had someone to share it with.

For the umpteenth time that day, he thinks of Bella.

The smile remains.


	60. Chapter 60 - Balloon

**60\. BALLOON **

Time dances through spring and summer like a foxtrot; slow-slow, quick-quick, slow. Bella learns the steps, holds on tight. Has faith that, like all things, this too, shall pass.

She spends the summer working at camp for disadvantaged children. Grows attached to a nine-year-old named Molly, whose lips seem to be curled into a permanent smile in spite of her blindness. At night Molly begs Bella to tell her stories of Zeus and Hera, of Hercules and his labors. As Molly falls asleep, Bella finds herself lost in her memories—always the good ones—thinking of Edward's passion for his subject.

In August, he sends his first Tweet: _Am I doing this right? _She laughs before she sends him a reply: a thumbs-up selfie.

After that he's up and running. The snail mail of his letters is enhanced by rapid-fire updates of his status. He sends her sunsets and sunrises, pictures of street markets and trattoria mezes. They're so evocative she can almost smell them.

Each one inflates her like a tiny balloon. Sometimes she thinks she's floating.

For the final few months of his year abroad, she watches him grow stronger each day. Sometimes he's clean shaven; sometimes he cultivates stubble that makes her want to stroke his cheek. But always, he looks happier, healthier, more fulfilled.

She feels the same.

They swap tales of therapy, of counsellors, of the journeys they're taking within themselves. The revelations, realizations. The blessed peace of acceptance.

It was never about healing each other. It was about healing themselves. Wounds scab over. Fresh skin grows. Where once there was pain, only the thinnest silver of scar remains.

She remembers those mad days of December without tears or regret. Throws herself into her studies, making up for lost time. When late November arrives—an anniversary of sorts—she sends him a Happy Thanksgiving Tweet.

His response: I_'m thankful for you_.

This isn't courtship by Twitter. It isn't a long distance relationship. What they have is unquantifiable, but it puts a smile on her face when once there was none. It's undemanding, yet needy. Fulfilling, yet wistful. A little bit of everything scattered throughout her day.

On that cold, fall day, she knows that she's thankful, too.


	61. Chapter 61 - Blind

**61\. BLIND**

He only intended to stay here for a year, yet he finds it bittersweet to leave. In Greece the air tastes sweeter, lighter, as if it's the most precious of things. Opening the blind each morning's a pleasure rather than a chore. He basks in the Aegean sun.

But all things come to an end. He decides to leave in December rather than January, unwilling to spin his time out across a holiday meant for family. If he has to endure it, he'd rather do so back home, in a town that holds his family, his memories, a sweet girl whose heart he once crushed.

He drinks his final ouzo, eats his final moussaka, says goodbye to the friends he's made, the sights he's seen. Sends his final Tweet from Greek shores.

At the airport he stocks up on gifts. With two days to go until Christmas, it's unlikely he'll have time to shop when he's back. He calls Jasper, arranges to stay with him and Maria; sends his parents an email, promising to visit when Alice isn't there.

They're old. They're innocent. He's sick of breaking hearts, weaving misery. It's so much more preferable to leave them wading in ignorant bliss, believing all is right with their children. He may dislike his sister, but he loves his parents. For their sake he'll keep things civil.

And then there's Bella.

He's not sure what he is to her now. A friend, an acquaintance? An ex-lover, certainly, and that memory makes him sad. Not for what he no longer has, but because of the hurt he caused her. Even if her emails make her seem happy, content, he'll always regret the anguish he created.

Because he loves her. He thinks he always will. This time, though, it isn't the all-consuming passion he once felt. It's altogether softer, gentler. The warmth of the sun rather than a raging inferno.

In the corner of the concourse sits a tiny booth full of jewelry. He glances at the racks, seeking out ideas for his mother's gift. That's when he sees the necklace— hanging from a hook on the wall—its pale silver glinting beneath the lights.

A sparrow in full flight. Wings unbroken, outstretched, and full. He holds it up, rubbing his fingers over the metal, admiring its beauty, its strength. Lifting it from the hook, he takes it to the register, asking for it to be gift-wrapped.

Bella was never broken. A little battered, bruised, maybe, but her strength was always there. His own fortitude was less certain. But bruises heal, bones mend, hearts can learn to love again.

Putting the necklace in his carry-on, he counts down the minutes to his departure. After Christmas, he wants to find her. Let her have her holiday first, unsullied by his presence, unshadowed by their memories.

After that, all bets are void.

An hour later, his flight takes off.

Edward sets his sight on a new but familiar horizon.


	62. Chapter 62 - Satchel

**62\. SATCHEL**

Of all things, Bella's been dreading Christmas**. **Thanksgiving was difficult enough, the days laced with memories of Edward and their stolen weekend. The softness of his touch, the heat of his skin are still so vivid. When Mike had invited her to stay with his family for that holiday, she'd gladly accepted.

He'd been a good buddy to her—the best of friends.

But now, in the harsh winds of December, she finds herself turning down offers for Christmas celebrations—from Mike, from Jasper and Maria. Even her mom called to enquire; a stilted conversation full of unsaid words. Their relationship will always be difficult, awkward at best; certainly not one full of love-filled holidays.

Sometimes, a holiday alone can seem less lonely than one surrounded by family.

In the end, she books herself into a motel, agreeing to visit Maria and Jasper on Christmas morning, a time to exchange gifts. Bella unpacks her satchel, fills the barren room with a small tree, decorated with reds and golds, then lights a candle to herald in the new day.

In her hands she clutches his most recent letter, the thick paper filled with neat, black print so familiar to her now. Though she loves the Tweets and photos he sends, it's his handwriting she craves most of all.

He tells her of his final month in Greece, the visits he's planned, the people he'll miss. Talks of his return to the US in the New Year, the apartment Jasper has found for him, his fears about reconnecting with his family. Through it all, she detects his hopeful tone. He sounds optimistic, excited for the future, a man well on his way toward recovery.

She's started that journey, too. It's been rocky, sometimes painful. Things that look like small hills from a distance have turned out to be mountains close up. Yet she's managed to scale them, to climb to the precipice. Appreciated the view after the intense exertion.

Grown stronger.

Not for the first time, she wonders what she is to him.

Over the course of the year they've become...friends. The thought brings a smile to her face. But her feelings toward him aren't those of a penpal. She's come to admire his strength, his positivity, his final ability to move on.

Is he moving on without her?

The thought pains her more than she's anticipated. As she lies in her bed, the letter still clutched in her right hand, she knows more than ever she wants him.

Whether she's fallen in love with him all over again, or the love she originally had for him remains true, she doesn't know. What's clear is: she loves him, and that's more than enough to make her resolute.

Suddenly, she can't wait to see him again.

For the first time in what seems like forever, the New Year feels like a gift, not an omen.


	63. Chapter 63 - Trounce

**63\. TROUNCE**

The first thing Edward does Christmas morning is Tweet Bella. Still half-awake, Edward lies in the guest room, trying to ignore Jasper's incessantly cheery singing, as he wishes everybody a _Feliz Navidad _in a surprisingly off-tone tenor.

**_Merry Christmas_****_ bswan11_**

A few minutes later, a reply.

**_Καλά Χριστούγεννα Cullen123_**

He can't hide his smile.

He's managed to get through twenty-four hours in the US without a breakdown, in spite of the familiar faces, cold weather, snowy scenery. The strength he'd found in Greece has been successfully imported, no longer a distant concept, now part of his psyche. It's a cliché, but he feels like a different man to the one who left a year ago. Stronger, kinder, better.

At breakfast they eat pastries as Jasper updates him on office gossip. When the conversation turns to real estate, Edward finds himself filled with gratitude.

"I can't thank you enough for all you've done. Managing the house sale, finding me a rental..."

"I'm sorry we couldn't get it furnished in time. We weren't expecting you back until January." Maria pours him a coffee. He sips the steamy, bitter liquid, remembering the days when that constituted breakfast. When he'd chase the dawn with a tumbler of whiskey, a carton full of cigarettes.

So much has changed. Yet he doesn't feel the completeness he craves. The final threads don't belong to him. They're owned by someone else entirely.

"There's something else." Jasper shifts in his seat, staring down at his plate. "We...I...Bella Swan is coming over for coffee this morning. We invited her before we knew you were coming back." Finally, he meets Edward's stare. "I'm not sure if she wants to see you, today of all days."

Closing his eyes, Edward rubs his forehead with stiff fingers. "Then I'll leave. What time will she be here?"

"About eleven. I'm so sorry, Edward. I feel like we're throwing you out." Maria pats his shoulder. He gives her a small smile. Lips curl, eyes crinkle.

"It's fine. I think I've trounced enough of her holidays." A sudden thought catches him. "Where is she staying?"

Breathless, he waits for their reply. Does she have a boyfriend? She hasn't mentioned one in her emails, but why would she? They're friends, not lovers. She owes him nothing.

"At the motel downtown."

"Alone?"

"She didn't say. We invited her for dinner, but she declined. We're hoping to take her captive after coffee—force turkey dinner on her." Maria's laugh is gentle, but Edward detects the disappointment in it. For the first time since he's arrived back home, he, too, feels regret.

Yet another of her holidays he's managed to ruin. He wants to kick himself for intruding after all this time away.

"I'll go for a drive. Check out the new apartment. You two try and persuade Bella to stay. I can eat leftovers when she's gone." He considers visiting his parents, then remembers Alice will be there. Better to sit in an empty apartment than face her angry stare. He doesn't feel like fighting with her this Christmas.

"Are you sure?"

He thinks of Bella last Thanksgiving, her body curled into a desperate ball on his porch. Last Christmas—the despair in her eyes when he revealed the truth. Her tales of a miserable childhood, full of broken promises and neglect.

Thinks of the redemption he's found in a faraway land. The peace he wishes he could give her, too.

"I'm sure."


	64. Chapter 64 - Flash

**64\. FLASH**

Bella drives to the Whitlocks' in the rusty car she bought with her summer's earnings. A smile plays at her lips when she sees the candy cane lights lining their driveway—a new addition to their already over-decorated house. When she walks up the steps she's struggling to hold a pile of gifts; her purse balanced on top like a wobbling gymnast.

Her phone's stuffed in her pocket. After Edward's Tweet from earlier, she's hoping for a response to her greeting. Wants to know he's still happy in Greece, when he's planning to return in the New Year.

She wonders if he misses her.

Holidays have always been bittersweet, and today's no exception. When she woke up in the silent hotel room she considered cancelling coffee and staying in bed all day. Wallowing seemed a natural response to her situation.

It was his words that changed her mind. The knowledge somebody out there was thinking of her on this blessed day.

When she knocks on the door, Jasper opens it almost immediately. The smile on his face is reflected in hers. She can't help but giggle at his Christmas sweater.

"Nice." She nods her head at the reindeer knitted on the front. The nose is made of a red light that flashes on and off. "And Merry Christmas."

"Bella!" Maria walks out of the kitchen in her familiar apron—this one festively appropriate. Her warm smile immediately puts Bella at ease. Sometimes Bella daydreams about being adopted by the Whitlocks. Wonders what her life might have been like had she been born into a family like theirs.

"Merry Christmas." She holds out the gifts, Jasper takes them, passing her purse back. She steels herself for a chorus of "you shouldn't haves", and is surprisingly gratified when they come.

"Have you had breakfast?" Maria asks. "I've just put some coffee on."

Bella blushes, remembering the huge stack of pancakes she ate at the motel diner. "Yes, I have. Coffee would be great."

After the coffee is made, they sit by the fire, exchanging gifts. Bing Crosby sings of his dreams in the background, making Bella feel wistful, yearning. She smiles at the over-large tree that dominates the room, at the reindeer on the mantel, and the red berry centerpiece on the table. Propped against a chair is an old, leather satchel. Originally dark brown, some of the coating is scratched away, revealing the lighter, downier inside.

She recognizes it immediately. Can remember it sitting on Edward's office desk, on his textbook table, left by his shoes in the hallway. He never strayed far from it.

Where he went, so did his case.

"Is that Edward's bag?" She gasps, stands up, walks toward the table. Doesn't notice Jasper and Maria exchange anxious glances.

"Yes, it's Edward's." Jasper's reply is stilted, but he will not lie.

Bella lifts it up, fingers curling around the supple handle. Where the leather remains untouched it has aged to a rich mahogany. "Is he here?" Her words are soft, almostdreamlike. She can't stop staring at the bag, caressing its worn leather.

She doesn't need them to answer. Her rapid heartbeat tells her what their voices do not—it's all she needs to know.

He's back.

* * *

**I'm posting two in a row today because I feel like a tease otherwise. Have a good Sunday!**


	65. Chapter 65 - Excursion

**Double posting today, don't forget to read 64 first!**

* * *

**65\. EXCURSION**

The new apartment is pleasant. Edward wanders through the empty space, taking in the two bedrooms, bathrooms, compact kitchen. The walls are pale, the floors warm; it's a blank slate waiting for more.

Where his house always seemed to want something, this place is simply a collection of bricks and wood. Its lack of animation more comforting than he can say.

There's no furniture in here yet—the little he kept still in storage—but he can picture it in this new home. He can see himself on the couch, in the kitchen, sleeping on his queen-sized bed in the large bedroom. He envisions it all.

Alone.

He leans on the windowsill, looking out across the trees that surround the building. Jasper chose well, knowing Edward would hate to live in the middle of the city. Prefers leaves and flowers to concrete and noise.

At first, he doesn't register the tap on the door. He imagines it's one of those sounds that accompanies an unfamiliar building—the creaking of pipes, the resting of bricks. But then it comes again, three taps in a row. It's their uniformity that grabs his attention.

It takes him a moment to open the door. He's not used to the locks, the right way to turn them. Doesn't think to use the spy hole in the door. When the final lock gives, he presses down the handle, expecting a neighbor, maybe Jasper or Maria.

What he sees is so much better. She stands in the doorway, her cheeks red from the brief excursion, her hands fidgeting nervously in front of her. Bella wears a thick coat, a multicolored scarf looped around her neck, looking every inch as beautiful as he remembers.

"Hi." Her words are soft. "I hope you don't mind, Jasper told me where you were..."

The same, yet so different. In spite of her gentle voice, he can sense a resoluteness where once there was none. Like steel covered by velvet. Though she stayed here in town, it seems her journey's been as affecting as his.

"Not at all. Come in." He stands back. When she brushes past he has to clench his fists to stop from touching her. "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't have anything."

She stops in the middle of the living room. Looks around the empty space. "When did you get back?"

"Yesterday."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I was planning to surprise you tomorrow. I figured I'd give you one last Christmas holiday I didn't ruin."

Briefly, she closes her eyes. Moistens her lips. "You haven't ruined anything."

That's when he feels it...the unforgettable need, the want that starts as a ball of fire in his stomach, radiating out cell by cell until he's practically consumed by it.

She catches him staring, but doesn't blush, just looks straight back, lips open, breath uneven. The empty room seems full now, not only with memories but with hope. He takes a step toward her, watching her reaction carefully.

What he sees makes his heart start to race.

"I missed you." The words tumble out of his mouth.

Blinking twice, she takes a step forward. Not tentative this time. Her gait is as determined as the expression on her face; as certain as the touch of her hand that reaches out to take his.

When she presses her lips to his cheek, it's his turn to close his eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Edward."


	66. Chapter 66 - Fidget

**66\. FIDGET**

It's only a kiss. A sweet, chaste peck on his cheek. He presses his hand into the small of her back, and she sighs against his skin. The previous pallor has left his face, replaced by a light, winter tan. The effect of the change makes her want to slide her lips until they meet his.

But she doesn't. Not yet.

He looks younger. Happier. The year away has lent him an air of peace that was painfully missing before...everything. When she leans back to look up at Edward's face, he curls his other arm around her waist, pulling her closer against his warm body.

It seems only right to loop her arms around his neck. Resting her face against his firm yet comforting chest, she closes her eyes, breathes him in. Responds to his touch all throughout her body. She hopes her thick coat disguises just how much.

Her eyes are still closed when he tucks a finger under her jaw. Squeezed shut when he tips up her head to meet his gaze. She breathes in the potential of the moment, tastes its sweetness, its wonder. When she finally looks at him, everything inside her stops.

Just like that.

Some say life is inevitable. That we follow predestined paths, marked out by Gods and monsters. They believe in karma and kismet, in unavoidable fate. It would be so easy for Bella to believe this, too. To rail against the Gods, to blame everything on _others_.

Bella didn't choose her life, but she can choose to leave her past behind. To move forward, instead of wallow. To take the olive branch and start to fly. As she stares into the telling eyes of this half-stranger, she knows the future is theirs to write.

"Hi." He doesn't move any closer. Simply holds her and smiles.

A new smile. One she hasn't previously seen. Full of Greek sun and acceptance. She likes the way it makes him glow.

"Hi, stranger." His face is close to hers. Near enough for her to feel his breath warm against her forehead. She can see the lines in his skin, crisscrossing at the corner of his eyes. Stares at the shadow on his sharp jaw where his scruff tries to push through.

For a moment he's speechless. Then he starts to laugh. The lines around his eyes deepen as his chest starts to shake.

"What?" She's laughing, too. Can't help it. "What's so funny?"

"This isn't how I imagined it would go," he says, his voice so honest. When she tries to pull away, he holds her closer.

"How did you think it would go?"

"I was going to give you space. Write you a letter, maybe. Give you time to get used to me being back. I don't want to crowd you."

She looks down at his arms, holding her tight, so tight, then starts to laugh all over again. From the look on his face, he likes the sound.

Though she fidgets in his grasp, it's not because she wants to move away.

"You're not crowding me. Not at all."

Quite the opposite, in fact.


	67. Chapter 67 - Clasp

**67\. CLASP**

There's only so much they can do in an empty apartment. He shows her the rooms, the view, speaks of his plans for his new home. Watches her closely every time she speaks. Though it's a strange way to spend Christmas, it isn't a bad way, not like the previous year, when celebrations were marred by the blackest of revelations.

When she looks at him and smiles, he feels the first beam of hope. Perhaps he hasn't spoiled her day after all.

An hour or so later, they walk out to his rental, drive around in search of an open restaurant. The one they find isn't exactly salubrious—more mom-and-pop than anything—but it's open and warm, serving turkey that's surprisingly moist.

"How's school?"

She looks up, surprised at his question."Good. I've chosen a major, finally."

Edward leans forward. "What?"

"Classics." Suddenly she seems shy. Stares down at her dinner. Doesn't see his gratified expression. She can feel his scrutiny, though. It warms her faster than any sun.

"And then?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. I'd like to travel, but I'll have to find a job first. Save some money." After a long, silent pause, her eyes meet his. He feels the heat spread through his body. "Tell me about Greece. I'd love to go there one day."

"Greece was..." How to put into words? It was beauty and life, ancient mysteries and modern wonders. "Greece was everything." He spends hours describing the sights, the people, the sounds, the culture. Every now and then he asks if he's boring her. She shakes her head, asks him to go on. Shares his wistful smile.

Later, when they leave the restaurant, he drives her back to his apartment, back to her run down car parked just outside. It's only when he pulls his coat on that he remembers the wrapped gift in the inside pocket of his jacket. Pulling it out, he hands it to her.

"I bought you this. Merry Christmas, Bella."

She holds the gift, stares at the paper. "I didn't get you anything."

"It's a gift, not an exchange. I bought it because it reminded me of you."

She's quiet as she unwraps it, carefully pulling off the tape, leaving the paper intact. When the pendant falls into her hand, she stares down at it for the longest time.

Eventually she speaks, soft, raspy. "It's beautiful, thank you." When she looks up, her eyes are full of tears. He wants to kiss them away, make them disappear.

Turn her world into one that harbors no sadness.

"Let me put it on." His voice, too, is rough. He moves behind her, scooping her hair, laying it across her shoulder. The nape of her neck is enticing, her skin creamy porcelain. When he fastens the clasp, his fingers linger on. He feels warm, silky smooth flesh. Her back stiffens.

When he leans forward, places his lips to her neck, she gasps. His kiss is soft, tender, in contrast to his maelstrom of feelings.

"I'm sorry." Choked words whispered into her skin. He doesn't know if he's apologizing for the kiss or for more, everything maybe.

"I'm not." She arches her neck, twists around to face him. "It's beautiful." When she leans forward, presses her mouth against his, they both know she's not only talking about the necklace.

With both hands he cups her face, the tips of his fingers brushing her jaw. A brush of the lips becomes a kiss. A tentative caress morphs into passion. He's a starving man faced with his first meal, desperate to taste, to devour, to consume. When he tries to pull away, shocked by his own ardor, she's the one who pulls him back in.

Together, they drown.

Sweet asphyxiation.

Aching need.

When they finally part, from instinct rather than intention, neither of them can speak. They barely breathe. But their eyes say it all. Their stares and their touches.

All he can think of is love.


	68. Chapter 68 - Erratic

**68\. ERRATIC**

They spend the winter break together. Reacquainting themselves, sharing news and dreams. Relearning passion like it's an old song they've almost forgotten. Each key change brings them closer together. Heartbeats synchronise, breaths become erratic, the melody enchants them both.

Makes them want to sing.

On New Year's Eve, they spend the night in his newly furnished apartment. They get drunk on cold champagne, on warm kisses, on the crystal-clear reality of each other. When the touching leads to more, he pushes inside her gently, easily. Together, they slip-slide their way to inevitable oblivion.

They fall as one. The descent is fast, exquisite. Seemingly unending. His skin burns against hers as he holds her tight, so tight. When she begs him not to let go, he doesn't need to reassure her. His eyes say it all. She stares into them as evening fades into nighttime, as wakefulness melts into sleep. Even in her dreams, she sees him.

When she wakes in the morning, his side of the bed is empty, warm. A folded note lies in the depression of the pillow. She idly opens it up, squinting to read his black-inked words.

_Love is a little piece of magic. It has no awareness of time or age. It doesn't conform to the rules of science. Like a gas, it refuses to be pinned down. I could tell you I love you because you're beautiful, or because you have the gentlest of hearts. And though those things are true, they're not the reason why. I love you because I need you to breathe. Because I have no choice. Even if I did, I'd choose you._

_I love you, Bella, because you are mine. _

_I've always been yours_.

It seems apt he declares his love in a letter. In a relationship dominated by the written word, it adds permanence to his affirmation. Makes it truer, somehow. She reads it again, tears streaming down her face. Realizes home is never a place but a state of mind.

It's _him_.

It always has been.

When Edward walks into the apartment carrying croissants and coffee, Bella launches herself at him. Among spilled liquid and flakes of pastry, she declares herself right back. He holds her waist while she peppers kisses across his face. His lips curl, his cheeks plump, his skin crinkles.

It's that Greek island smile she's come to love. She wants to swim in it, feel the warmth of the water, the heat of the sun. Instead, she offers back her own, full of youthful dreams, reciprocated love.

He steals it away with his lips, his tongue. Presses his body against hers until neither of them know where they start or end. It doesn't matter any more, they're where they are supposed to be.

Together.

* * *

**The end. Apart from the epilogue that posts tomorrow. Or later today, depending on my willpower.**

**Thank you, thank you for all your support. To the readers, reviewers, reccers, bloggers. Y'all rock. **I'm going to miss the daily posting. And every one of you.****

**And to Mid and Sparrow, my beautiful friends, critics and pretty much everything else, I love you both more than I can say. **


	69. Epilogue - Five Years Later

**EPILOGUE - FIVE YEARS LATER**

Her memories become concentrated, filtered by the passing years. What once was fun becomes pure happiness. Sad times sharpen into devastation. When Bella thinks of those days—the first, lonely weeks of her academic career—they seem more fiction than memoir. She doesn't see things through the lens of a nineteen-year-old girl, but as an older, wiser observer. She aches for the lonely student, cries for the tortured man. Finds the memories hard to reconcile with the happy couple they've become.

Their first few years after graduation are spent in Greece. Edward lectures at a small, liberal arts college near Athens, while she undertakes further research, spending as much time as possible studying ancient ruins. Their skins gain the patina of a deep tan, their tongues acquire the taste of sharp alcohol and sweet pastry. In the summer they decamp to the Greek Islands, absorbing the sights and sounds of Santorini, speculating about the fate of the lost island of Atlantis. They spend long, hot days swimming in the Aegean, humid nights drinking ouzo and eating mezes at local bars.

They smile. They laugh. They kiss a lot. Looking forward, only forward. The shadows of their past can't catch them, not matter how hard they grasp.

A telephone call in the middle of the night hastens their journey back. They arrive home to see Carlisle being lowered into the ground. Edward supports his mother as she breaks down, his arms wrap around her waist as she collapses into them. On her other side, Alice stares at him with empty eyes. Years of bitterness have aged, withered her. She looks so much older than her twin.

They don't speak a word to each other. Haven't for years. Her vitriol is no longer his to absorb. Before he left for good he tried to make Alice understand, attempted to explain everything…including those bruises—Maggie's bruises—were not at his hand. She wouldn't listen, though—it was only, always all about Maggie.

So life moves on.

Though Edward and Bella both have jobs in Athens, they decide not to go back. It's not solely the lure of family that keeps them—even if Esme's delighted to have them close—but the tiny cluster of cells dividing and growing in Bella's stomach. The hope of something new, something right, something beyond.

The one thing they've both been longing for—the final testament of their love.

By the end of her first trimester, Edward secures a position at a college in New England; in a picturesque town which seems more European than anything. They find a house, convert the garage, invite Esme to join them in their brand new life.

They watch as Bella grows, as she glows, as the hope of new life finally snuffs out the memories of the old. At night, Edward curls his body around hers, shielding her abdomen with splayed hands, feeling the first tiny kicks as their baby makes contact with the world.

He's so goddamned happy. The taste is sweet in his mouth. Flows like honey in his veins.

They talk of names. Of Ariadne and Hera, of Troy and Nicholas. When Edward suggests Icarus, Bella laughs and pushes him away. In the end they agree to wait for the birth, hoping a name will appear with the tiny, screwed up face.

A herald of all good things.

Asia Phoebe Cullen comes into the world on a warm, springtime morning. She arrives with the sun, eyes blinking rapidly, her lungs hearty and loud as she lets out her first noisy wail. Edward holds her, staring down at her angry face, a smile about splits his face in two. He places their daughter in Bella's arms, the sight causing tears to spill over his cheeks.

Tears and smiles. Elation and indescribable joy. He almost expects to see a rainbow. To hear the Angels sing.

"A girl." Bella pulls their scrap of a baby close, skin upon skin. "I can't believe she's ours."

Neither can he. Edward sits down beside her on the bed, holding his girls close, marveling at their beauty. He wants to savor the moment, like a snapshot of senses, something he can pull out and experience time and again.

Love is the most mercurial of emotions. It can build you up, break you down. It brings tears, joy, pain, delight. It's a tornado and a zephyr.

He feels them all, staring at his wife holding his daughter. Emotions so large they can't be dammed. He breathes in deep, holds it for barely a moment, exhales anew.

Asia.

A new dawn.

A new beginning.

Their little piece of forever**.**


End file.
